


I am a Heart on Fire

by thewolvescalledmehome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, soldier jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-03-08 21:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 71,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18902788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: Both Jon and Sansa are reeling from the loss of Robb Stark. Sansa is mourning her older brother, her protector, her savior. Jon is mourning his brother-in-arms and the closest thing he's ever had to a family. They both flee to Winterfell and realize that maybe they don't have to go through this alone.





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the lyric "I am a heart on fire, and all the world's a fuse so don't get close" from the song Methadone by Rise Against.
> 
> I have the first ~6 chapters written, and I hope to be updating about once a week for now.

Jon was disoriented when he woke up, his brain taking longer than usual to place where he was. There were four solid walls, curtains on the windows, a bed beneath him. His brain recognized all of these facts but it always took a few minutes to add all of those facts up to equal _safe_.

When he finally remembered where he was and what day it was, he groaned, rolling over and pushing his face into the pillow.

Today marked the sixth month anniversary of him returning from war.

Six months since he’d lost his best friend.

Six months since he’d technically died.

And six months meant that he was up for evaluation, which meant they could clear him to return to normal, civilian life.

If Jon was being honest with himself, he was kind of hoping he didn’t get cleared. Medically, technically, he was fine, with the exception of the scars covering his chest and his right hand trembling occasionally. Mentally, he wasn’t fine. He’d barely interacted with anyone aside from doctors, nurses, and psychologists since he’d returned. He still struggled with so much. There was no way they would release him.

Jon waited until the alarm clock next to him started to play a soft piano melody to get out of bed. He would’ve been impressed by the fact that he’d woken before he’d had to—usually the nightmares and fitful sleep meant that he’d slept through it—but that was such a small, stupid accomplishment that he refused to let himself be proud of that. 

Once he turned his alarm off, he laid in bed for another few minutes, as per his routine, taking full inventory. His injuries were nothing but scars now—there was no pain anymore. His head felt relatively normal—his thoughts weren’t fuzzy or cloudy and there wasn’t a buzzing in his ears. He’d known what day it was once he’d oriented himself.

Most importantly, his heart was beating. He counted the beats, his hand over his heart, feeling the pumping of the blood to verify that what he was hearing was accurate. Once he was sure his heart was in fact beating and it was unlikely it would stop, he slowly moved out of the bed and when his world didn’t tilt on its axis, he started for the bathroom.

He knew Dr. Tarth would say all of these things were good—things to be proud of. When he’d moved into the VA’s residential complex after he’d been released from the hospital, his morning routine consisted of flashbacks and panic attacks that confined him to his bed. Despite Dr. Tarth’s voice in his head though, he knew he wasn’t close to healthy, even if he was better.

That was Dr. Tarth’s constant reminder: _you’re doing better. You’ve made progress._ But Jon didn’t care about progress or _better_ —he wanted healthy. He wanted whole. He wanted _normal._

* * *

“How was your morning?” Dr. Tarth asked that afternoon. Her office was quiet enough that Jon could hear his heart beating soundly, rhythmically.

“Dunno. Fine. Uneventful,” he shrugged. His heartbeat was keeping him relatively calm but there was a voice reminding him that his future was dependent on how he answered her questions. Where he slept next week was dependent on how he answered her questions.

“How long did you check your heart rate for this morning?”

He liked that she phrased it that way. That made it sound normal, as if he was an athlete, checking his heart rate after an exercise, except he checked his every morning—every time he woke up.

“Three minutes,” he admitted.

“That’s good,” she said eagerly. _That’s better_ , he heard. Last week it had been five minutes. A few months ago it had been a half hour. _It’s still not normal,_ he thought. “Aside from checking your heart rate, how has everything else been?”

“Fine, I guess. I haven’t had an episode recently, but I still need to orient myself every morning.”

“And how long has that taken?”

“This morning it was a few minutes. Sometimes it’s less. On my bad days it’s more.”

“Would you consider today a good day or a bad day?”

 _Depends on how this appointment goes,_ Jon thought.

“Is mediocre an option?” he asked instead. Dr. Tarth granted him a rare smile.

“It is. That’s another good sign, you know. Being able to separate your days into different categories and recognizing when something isn’t good or bad and finding a third option.”

Jon didn’t have a response to that so he didn’t say anything.

“I’m assuming you’re aware that today’s meeting serves as an evaluation to see if you’re ready to be released. What do you think about the idea of being released?”

 _It fucking terrifies me_ , he thought. All he did was shrug. He focused on the potted tree in the corner. He still wasn’t sure if it was plastic or just well taken care of.

“Jon?” Dr. Tarth prompted when he didn’t supply a verbal response.

“Worried, maybe? I dunno.”

“What about it worries you?”

_Everything._

“You say I’ve made such progress and I’m better, but that’s here. What if you let me go and I’m not actually better? What if I just regress once I’m released?”

“That’s a very valid concern. It’s also a very common one. I can assure you we don’t release anyone we don’t think would able to function and cope with situations in the outside world.” Dr. Tarth leaned forward then, her face more serious than it usually was. “However, I can tell you that the line of recovery is not straight. It’s jagged, full of ups and downs. We’ve talked about your good days and bad days—those will continue once you leave here. That doesn’t mean though, that you’re unfit to return to society.”

 _Doesn’t it?_ Jon thought.

“Is that what you feel? That you’re unfit?”

“I feel like…” Jon paused, looking for the right words. He didn’t think he was _unfit_ —he just thought he wasn’t ready yet. “I feel like _better_ and _healthy_ aren’t the same thing.”

“You’re right. They’re not. But when we’re looking at cases like yours, the idea you have of healthy is far down the road. Your recovery is going to be long and while we strive to help with that process, a majority of it will be out there, with your support system.”

Jon had to suppress his snort. His support system had died six months ago.

“How’ve your outings been going?”

Jon answered honestly and the rest of their appointment continued similarly to their numerous other ones.

By the end of his appointment, he was unsure on what Dr. Tarth’s recommendation would be. He’d all but said he wasn’t ready, though he suspected if he had Dr. Tarth would’ve said something about pushing himself out of his comfort zone was the only way he’d get healthy.

* * *

Jon found out later that week what Dr. Tarth had recommended. He’d been called to come in to her office on a day they didn’t typically have an appointment and there was a second person there as well. Jon knew instantly what that meant and a pit formed in his stomach.

“Jon, I’d like you to meet Jory Cassel.”

The man beside Dr. Tarth stood, extending his hand. Jon stepped forward to shake it, hoping his damn hand didn’t tremble. If it did, Jory Cassel didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t seem to notice how puckered with scars it was either.

“Jory is part of our mentor program. Your doctors and I have agreed that you’re ready to begin transitioning back to civilian life. Jory will help with the process. He’ll help find you an apartment, a job, go grocery shopping with you if you need it. You’ll be checking in with him, in addition to weekly appointments with me.”

Jon leveled Jory with a look. The man looked maybe ten years older than himself. He supposed he should feel a sort of kinship with the man. Both Northern men returned home from war not quite whole, but Jon didn’t see that haunted look in Jory’s eyes that he saw everyday in the mirror.

“I’m meant to leave then?” Jon asked finally, feeling the need to check for his heart but he resisted the urge to place his palm on his chest.

“No, not immediately. It’s a transitional program. Instead of going on the outings with other patients, you’ll look for apartments with Jory. We won’t fully release you until you have a place and a job,” Dr. Tarth assured him.

Jon knew that should have given him comfort, but it didn’t. He could only image what type of apartment he’d surely end up renting: small, dingy, unreliable water or electricity. The same went for a job. He’d enlisted soon after he graduated. He hadn’t a college degree. He wasn’t qualified to do anything, and with his aversion to loud noises and the tremor in his hand, he was sure he was looking at being a grocery bagger. Though he doubted he could interact comfortably with that many people for an extended period of time.

“Jon? How does that sound?” Dr. Tarth asked. Jon hadn’t heard the first half of her question but he gave a small shrug anyway.

“Fine.”

She and Jory began explaining the transitioning process then and Jon tried to listen, he did, but his thoughts were too wrapped up trying to figure out how he would ever get a decent job in his condition.

* * *

Jon was exhausted. He’d just returned from yet another apartment viewing with Jory and his head was spinning. The brightness of the sun glinting off of cars had given him a headache and combine that with all the people he’d had to interact with, he was ready to sleep for a week.

He couldn’t sleep though. He and Jory had only returned so he could change before his job interview at a bookstore. Even so, he lay on his bed, thinking a moment of quiet with his eyes closed would help the way his head was pounding.

Jon had to admit, shelving books and taking inventory was better than being a bagger but he kept having visions of himself dropping the books because of his hands, and the sound of the book hitting the floor sending him reeling. Jory had assured him the job would be fine, good for him even.

Jon wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t so sure about any of it. Moving out on his own, getting a job, none of it seemed like a good plan, but every time he thought about bringing it up with Dr. Tarth, he imagined her saying that he couldn’t rely on the VA like a crutch. That’s what Jory had said when Jon had mentioned something similar after touring the first apartment building.

Really, the idea of doing so much on his own terrified him. He’d been on his own before enlisting, and he’d been on his own since his discharge. He hadn’t handled it the best then and he doubted that he’d handle it any better now. Not after what he knew it felt like to have a family; his brothers that he’d lost in the blast that had killed him too. The medics got to him in time—he’d died on the operating table, not in the field. And he’d only been dead for two minutes. None of the rest of his brothers had been so lucky.

Thinking of his brothers, Jon drew the blanket over his head, blocking out the rest of the world. With his heart in his throat, he pulled up the video on his phone he watched every time he thought he felt the scars in his chest opening again. For some reason, it made him feel better in a way that reassuring himself that he was still live didn’t.

On the screen men in fatigues were bent over with laughter. Tormund was in the middle, dancing some ridiculous dance he’d claimed worked to get girls. Several men stood behind him, trying to mimic him. The image shook as the man holding the phone laughed. A voice off camera made a joke, causing Tormund to guffaw. The camera turned to the voice and Jon’s heart clenched.

_Robb._

He missed everyone from his squad, but he missed Robb differently. Robb had been his best friend, his brother in a way that was different from the other men he called his brothers. Robb had been reason he’d truly felt welcomed in the squad. Robb had been the one to invite him back to his every time they got leave—even if it wasn’t at the same time.

 _Here’s my address,_ he’d said. _Tell my parents who you are. They’ll welcome you with open arms. You’ll always have a place in Winterfell._

Jon closed out of the video, opening his contacts instead. He only had a handful of names in it so finding Robb’s didn’t require much scrolling. His address was still there.

Jon fell asleep staring at it, wondering what Robb’s parents would say if he suddenly showed up on their doorstep.

* * *

“Jory tells me you missed your interview at the bookstore,” Dr. Tarth said after greeting him. Jon sighed.

“I fell asleep.”

“I see. Jory’s also told me you’ve yet to apply for any apartments.” Jon looked away from her, feeling oddly defiant.

“I’ve been thinking,” he hedged at last, though he still didn’t look at her.

“What about?”

“Robb.” Even with his eyes adverted, he saw Dr. Tarth’s deep inhale. They’d spoken at length about his survivor’s guilt, but they hadn’t spoken of Robb or any of the other men from his squad for weeks. “I can’t be on my own again,” he admitted. “I’m not ready for that.” Dr. Tarth sighed.

“I know it’s frightening, Jon, but—”

“It’s the emptiness that scares me. I spent eight years of my life surrounded by people, men I called my brothers. I’ve spent the last six months in a building full of people who could’ve been my brothers. I don’t know how to be on my own anymore.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Jon, but you understand, with your family situation…” Dr. Tarth trailed off. Jon was well aware of his family situation.

“What if I found somewhere to stay on my own? With a family?”

“You’ve found a family who’s aware of your condition and has agreed to take you in?” Jon tried to tell himself that it was not skepticism he heard in her voice. He gave a slight nod of his head. “What about a job?” Dr. Tarth asked.

“They’ve a ranch with cottages they rent out. They said I could help out with that.” Jon thought he should feel more ashamed of the lie, of the fact he was lying to his psychologist, but he didn’t.

“Well, it sounds like you’ve thought this through. May I ask whose family you’ll be staying with?”

“Robb’s.”

* * *

Jon double-checked the address on his phone as he walked up the driveway. 298 Weirwood Drive. He hitched his bag higher on his shoulder and raised his fist to knock on the door, trying to ignore how obviously his right hand shook.


	2. Sansa

In hindsight, she probably should’ve seen it coming. Had she been paying attention, she might have. Had she not thrown herself into her work as soon as she came back from Winterfell.

Looking back, she could easily spot all the red flags she should’ve noticed, but then again, hindsight was twenty-twenty.

The first one she remembered seeing was at her parents’ cottages in Winterfell, the week after the funeral.

Robb’s funeral.

Sansa had decided to stay a little longer—work hadn’t minded the leave of absence—they’d understood. She’d thought Harry would encourage her to return home with him, but instead he’d kissed her and said _stay as long as you need_. The fact that he hadn’t offered to stay with her at all should’ve been the first cause for concern.

Then there were all those late nights she spent at the office, all those weekends, none of which Harry had protested. He’d simply smiled and said _of course. I can fend for myself._ One of the other women in the office who worked nearly as much as Sansa was always saying how bad she felt for leaving her boyfriend at home, for having to cancel their date nights, how she was always trying to make it up to him. That never happened between her and Harry.

At the time, Sansa had thought it was because they both understood that work was a priority. She also had suspected Harry assumed she was drowning herself in work so she wouldn’t drown in her grief. She thought he respected that.

The fact he never complained and sometimes even encouraged her to work late had never seemed odd to her.

Now, though, recognized it all for what it was.

She’d told him she was working late again and she looked at him closely for the first time in months. To her surprise, she didn’t see resentment or even resignation in his eyes. It looked to her like anticipation. That itself should’ve been cause for concern, but she’d brushed it off. She’d been in a hurry to get to the office early.

Then her boss came in and told her to leave early. Take the night off. She was working herself too hard. Sansa tried to argue but her boss gently kicked her out of the office early—early for anyone, not just for her.

That meant she arrived home early. As far as she was aware, Harry should’ve been at work too, which was why she was surprised to see his car in their building’s lot. She didn’t even register that there was car she didn’t recognize parked in their visitor’s spot.

She’d walked into their bedroom, thinking maybe Harry was sick. She hadn’t even considered what she’d found to be a possibility.

Sansa supposed she should’ve felt _something_ , but staring at the bodies on the bed, all she felt was numb. She supposed she should’ve thrown a fit, cried, screamed, but all she did was walk calmly back to her car and waited until the other woman left.

Harry walked the other woman to her car and Sansa watched, still feeling numb. Even once he was back inside and she knew she’d have to go in and confront him, she felt numb.

She knew, distantly, that she should be feeling something, anything. Rage, anger, hurt, embarrassment, anything, but she felt nothing. The same nothingness she’d felt since she’d gotten the call forcing her return to Winterfell.

“Sansa. You’re home early,” Harry commented. She was impressed at how he’d made his voice sound pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah. You are too.”

“Yeah, uh, didn’t I tell you? I started working from home some afternoons.”

“Is that what they call it,” she asked woodenly.

“Pardon?” he asked, a small smile on his face. With a start, Sansa realized it was a pitying smile. He thought her grief was driving her off the deep end. He hadn’t even noticed her car in the lot, or the fact she’d literally walked in on him with someone else in their bed.

She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d done more than kiss on their way to work or before they went to bed.

“Sleeping with other women while your fiancée works late. They call that working from home now, do they?”

“Sansa, dear, I don’t know what…”

“I got home twenty minutes ago.” The smile finally fell from his face.

“Sansa, sweetheart, let me explain.”

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” she told him, brushing past on her way to the bedroom.

He followed her, explaining all the while, though it sounded like white noise to Sansa. She packed, her hands still as she folded clothes, collecting toiletries, unplugging chargers.

 _I should be crying,_ she thought dully. _A normal person would be crying if they found out their fiancé had been cheating on them._

_Except I cried all my tears months ago._

Sansa shouldered her bags, pushing around him again.

“What, are you going to check into a hotel?”

“Nope,” she muttered, striding straight for the door.

“Where are you going then?”

“Home.”

“I thought this was your home,” he called after her, but she shut the door behind her without comment or acknowledgement.

It wasn’t until she was back in her car that Sansa began to react, when she placed her hands on the steering wheel and the light caught her ring.

This was a _fiancé_ she was leaving, not a boyfriend. This was serious.

She almost got back out of her car and went back inside, but Harry hadn’t followed her.

_Robb would kill him._

The thought rose, unbidden, to the front of her mind, followed immediately by the idea to call Robb and tell him. He’d know what to do. He’d protect her.

 _Except he can’t. Because he’s dead,_ she reminded herself harshly.

That was when the numbness broke and her hands began to shake. With tears in her eyes for the first time since she left Winterfell, she turned the key and started for home.

* * *

Sansa supposed she should have probably called her parents or her siblings to tell them that she was coming home, instead of just showing up, but then she would’ve needed to give some kind of explanation and she wasn’t ready for that.

She couldn’t face telling them that her fiancé, the man she’s been with since her freshman year of college, had been cheating on her. Not so soon after the news about Robb, and how it had ripped her apart.

No, she used the four-hour drive to create an excuse for an extended stay at Winterfell, so that when she showed up she had an explanation.

* * *

When she pulled up to the last rest stop outside Winterfell, she took her makeup bag in with her to remove all traces of tears from her face.

She had to look like the old Sansa, the one from before six months ago. She had to look fine. She couldn’t let her parents know how broken she still was.

As she was zipping her bag, her ring caught her eye again. With a flare of anger, she yanked it from her finger, ready to hurl it into a toilet, but the look of her naked finger was foreign and gave her pause.

Her finger hadn’t been bare since she was in college, two years ago. Without the half carat, her finger looked small, young. Not her own.

The lack of diamond was obvious. Something her family—her mother, at least—would definitely notice. Something that would definitely cause them to ask questions.

Slowly, she slid the ring back on her finger.

 _Just for a little while,_ she told herself. _Just until I figure out how to tell them what happened._

Sansa thought the lie should’ve burdened her, the ring should’ve been a weight on her hand, but it wasn’t. It felt like it always had, except she didn’t smile when it caught her eye. She just felt numb when she looked at it, the same way she felt when she looked at him.

* * *

When Sansa turned off the engine outside her parents’, the first thing she saw was the hole in the line of cars, where Robb’s used to be. The sight ripped a tear inside her already broken heart, but she just looked at the ring again, feeling the numbness create a shell around her.

“Sansa?” she heard as soon as she stepped out of the car. “What are you doing here?” her mom asked as she swept her into a hug that knocked the wind out of Sansa but she hoped Catelyn never let go.

“Arya said you guys needed some help with the cottages, since it’s high season. Thought I’d come and help out.”

It was a lie, but a valid lie. It _was_ high season, and Arya _had_ texted that they were booked up through mid-August. And Sansa had spent many summers helping out when they got busy. That was nothing new.

“What about your job? They’ve given you a leave of absence?” Catelyn asked skeptically.

Sansa had to stop her face from dropping. She’d forgotten about work. Her only thought had been to get out, get home, get away from Harry.

“Yeah. They’re fine with it. I’ve been putting in a lot of extra hours, so they’re fine with me having an extended vacation.” The extra hours were true, at least. She would email them tonight. She knew they’d understand.

“Huh. Well, that’s kind of them. And of you. We do need the extra help. Oh, everyone will be so excited that you’re home…” Catelyn was saying, wrapping her arm around Sansa’s shoulders and guiding her into the house.

Sansa listened quietly while her mom chatted about the ranch, the guests, her siblings. She didn’t mention Robb or the funereal at all, the last time Sansa had been home. Sansa was glad—she didn’t know if she’d be able to keep it together if her mom said anything about him.

“Hey, everyone, look who’s home to help out!” Catelyn called as she steered her into the kitchen.

“Sansa!” Ned exclaimed, rising and crossing the room to hug her. “What’re you doing home?”

“Arya texted that we needed help, so Sansa took a leave of absence,” Catelyn supplied before Sansa got a chance to answer.

Arya’s eyes quickly found hers over their father’s shoulders.

 _Shit_ , she thought. She was going to have to give Arya a better explanation because Arya knew she wouldn’t drop everything based off the text she’d sent. _Can’t talk now—really busy._ And then _Booked up through August_ when Sansa suggested that Arya come down to the Vale for a long weekend.

“So what can I do to help?” Sansa asked before Arya could comment on anything.

“Well, I think everyone’s all settled in for the night. There’s a young couple, an elderly couple, and a family staying this week. You could help with breakfast and linens tomorrow morning though.”

Sansa nodded, looking around the kitchen anyway though, needing to do something with her hands.

“Are you hungry? Do you want any thing to eat? We would’ve saved a plate for you if we knew you were coming.”

“No, no, I’m good, thanks. I think I’ll just head to bed. It was a long drive.”

“Oh, um, we’ve been using your room for storage. You can bunk with Arya until we get everything moved out.”

“Yeah, okay. Sounds good.”

“I’ll be up in a little bit,” Arya told her.

Sansa nodded again before shouldering her bags and heading upstairs. On her way to Arya’s room, she passed Robb’s. What had been Robb’s.

Sansa remembered being a teenager, rushing home from dates to tell Robb all about them, or from school and rushing home to tell him all about the fight she’d gotten into with Jeyne. She remembered bursting into his room without knocking, leaping onto his bed, and spilling her guts.

Sansa remembered planning all of her weekends home around Robb’s leave after he enlisted, making sure she never missed a time when he was in Winterfell. She practically planned her life around Robb being home, until she couldn’t anymore.

Without realizing it, Sansa’s hand had fallen on the doorknob to Robb’s room. She started to turn it, thinking about all the hoodies and t-shirts that probably smelled like him, but then she realized she didn’t know what she’d find on the other side of the door. Her parents were using her room for storage—what if they were using Robb’s too? What if they’d taken everything down, boxed it up, and stuck him in the attic?

No, she couldn’t bear to see that.

Sansa dropped her hand from the doorknob and moved on to Arya’s room.

Once she was in her sister’s room, Sansa dropped her bags at the foot of Arya’s futon. She’d been planning on showering, washing of the grime of driving for four hours coupled with the feeling of realizing that her fiancé had been cheating on her, but as soon as she saw the bed, she realized how exhausted she was, and collapsed instead, without even changing out of the clothes she’d been in since she’d left for work that morning.

* * *

“Sansa? You awake?”

“Mmm.”

Sansa had drifted off for a while, but she’d been awake for at least ten minutes by the time Arya had come to the room. She’d kept her eyes closed though, hoping that Arya would assume that she was still sleeping.

“Okay, why’re you home?”

“Arya, can we just leave it for now? I’m tired.”

“Yeah, fine. Just… is it Robb?”

“What?” Sansa asked, sitting up in the bed a little.

“Are you here ‘cause of what happened to Robb?”

“I dunno, Arya. I guess?”

“It’s not something else, then?”

“What’re you talking about?” Sansa groaned, flopping back down on the futon.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Seven hells, Arya. No.”

“Okay, okay. Just checking.”

* * *

Sansa was still dead asleep when Arya shook her awake the next morning.

“Wha…?”

“Better get up if you want a chance at a hot shower.”

“Ugh,” Sansa groaned, pushing herself up into a sitting position. “What time is it?”

“Just after six. I’m going to help with breakfast.”

“M’kay. I’ll be down soon.”

Arya left without another comment, which Sansa was grateful for. She couldn’t deal with any more of Arya’s questions this early in the morning.

She got up and showered quickly, shocked at how great it felt after having skipped it yesterday night. She would’ve loved to stay in it longer, but she couldn’t risk using all of the hot water. Her mother would kill her.

Sansa was downstairs fifteen minutes later, face fresh and wet hair in a tight knot.

“How can I help?” she asked, sliding up to the counter between her father and sister.

“Watch the ham for me?” Ned asked, passing her the tongs.

“Where’re the boys?” Sansa asked, sliding the ham around in the pan.

“Bran’s taking summer classes so he won’t be home much. And Rickon’s bringing breakfast to Jon.”

“Jon? Who’s Jon?” Sansa asked, fully turning around. Arya wouldn’t refer to one of the guests so easily by their name, and Rickon wouldn’t be out taking breakfast to a guest.

“Jon’s the new handyman I was telling you about yesterday,” Catelyn supplied, walking into the kitchen, her arms full of serving treys.

Sansa blinked at her mom, trying to remember when she mentioned him, though she hadn’t been listening all that closely, she’d admit.

“Where’s he staying?” Sansa’s heart started pounding in her chest, her mind spinning through all the different places this handyman could be staying. She hoped to hell it wasn’t in Robb’s room—that was worse than anything else she had considered yesterday.

“Out in the old trailer.”

“Out in the old—what, the thing we went camping in when we were young? That _eyesore_? I thought you were taking it to Granddad’s?”

 “Well, we were, but then he showed up, and it just seemed to work out.”

“Where’s it parked?”

“On the path between the house and the cottages.”

“Guests can _see_ it?”

“Calm down, Sansa. It’s not like it’s a dumpster. He needed somewhere to stay,” Arya retorted.

Her mouth snapped closed.

She didn’t want to add that they’d played in that trailer as children. That she and Robb had spent hours in it, hiding from chores or doing homework. Even during the winter, that was their hideout. Hers and Robb’s. She didn’t know how she felt about someone else staying in it.

She thought that, given her parents changed their minds on selling it after that phone call six months ago, that meant that they didn’t want to give up another part of their family. One that held so many memories.

Letting someone stay in it was just as bad as selling it, Sansa thought. It was still replacing Robb.


	3. Jon

Jon was hauling his toolbox out to one of the farthest cabins when he heard footsteps on the path behind him. He quickly turned around, stepping off the path so that whoever was behind him could pass.

“Hi, Jon,” Arya called, catching up to him.

He breathed out in relief that it was Arya on the path. Of all the Starks he’d met, she was the one he was most comfortable around. She’d taken one look at him standing on their front porch and had him sitting in front of Ned with a cup of tea before he knew what was happening. 

That had been just over a month ago.

She was still the closest thing he had to a friend here. The closest thing he had to Robb.

“Thought I’d help you out today,” she said, matching his stride.

“Doesn’t your mom need your help?” he asked. Not that he didn’t want her help or enjoy her company, but because he didn’t want to pull her away from someplace she needed to be. And give them reason to get rid of him.

“Nah. My sister came home to help out, so she’s helping Mom.”

“Your sister’s home? Sansa?”

“Yeah. She’s not thrilled about you staying in the trailer, by the way, so I’d steer clear until she calms down.”

Jon’s gut clenched, right hand trembling.

Arya must’ve noticed, because she stepped around to face him, blocking him, and put a hand on his.

“She won’t do anything. She just threw a fit this morning. Said she was concerned about how the guests would see the trailer being parked there,” she added softly.

“She has a good point,” he joked, his panic waning.

“Don’t listen to her. I think there’s something going on with her. I wouldn’t take anything she says personally.” Her voice had gone quiet in the middle, as if he wasn’t meant to hear that part.

He wanted to scoff and say, _of course there’s something going on with her. You all lost Robb six months ago._ But he didn’t, because it wasn’t his place.

“You should come up to the house for dinner tonight. You can meet Sansa. Shut up whatever worries she has about you living in the trailer.”

After the first day, Jon hadn’t been up to the house at all, aside from meeting with Arya to go into town. The idea of sitting down with all of them, around the table with seven chairs, caused his hand to tremble.

It hadn’t been as bad that first day, with Sansa and Bran both not present. There had been multiple empty chairs—not just the one that had belonged to Robb. But with Sansa home, Jon would be sitting in Bran’s chair, which meant the only open one would be Robb’s. And it would be glaringly obvious.

“I don’t know, Arya.”

“Aw, c’mon, Jon. Besides Rickon and me, no one ever gets a chance to see you. Mom and Dad barely know you, and you’ve been working for them for a month!”

“I have a lot to do today.”

“Yeah, and you have me to help. We’ll get it done in half the time, and with plenty of time before dinner.”

Jon sighed, knowing there was no way he would be winning the argument.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll come up for dinner.”

“Great! I’ll let Mom know as soon as we get whatever it is we’re doing done. What are we doing?” she asked, as they came upon the farthest standing cottage.

“Plumbing’s got a leak. And the shutters all need their hinges greased.”

“I can start on the shutters, then.”

Jon nodded, setting his toolbox on the front porch and handed her the screwdriver and WD40. 

“I’ll be inside. There’s a step ladder in the back if you need it.”

“Funny.”

Arya found him under the kitchen sink twenty minutes later, her face flushed and her hands grease stained.

“Why don’t you have a drill? I know Dad has one.”

“I…um… I must’ve forgotten it in the shed,” Jon lied, lowering himself back under the sink with his wrench.

“Do you mind if I go get it?”

“Nope,” Jon grunted, fitting the wrench around a pipe.

Jon went back to work fixing the leaking sink, body newly tensed, waiting for Arya’s return with the power drill.

He knew if he explained it to her she would understand, but he couldn’t bear to explain it. How he couldn’t use power tools without jumping and his hand trembling. The sounds all bringing back flashes from war, his time overseas.

The first time he tried using a drill, his second day with the Starks, he’d had an attack like he hadn’t had in months. It had taken him almost thirty minutes before he could move from where he had collapsed against the back of one of the cottages. He hadn’t touched any of them since. It meant that he worked slower than he would if he actually used the damn things, but it also meant he had far fewer attacks.

Jon had just finished with the sink when he heard the drill start up on the other side of the cottage.

It didn’t send him spinning into an attack because he’d been braced for it, but it still caused him to start and knock his head on the pipe.

“Shit,” he cursed, dropping his head back down.

Closing his eyes, Jon allowed himself a minute to refocus and calm his racing heart.

Once the buzzing of the drill was nothing more than a dull background noise, he pushed himself out from under the sink and towards the bathroom, where the showerhead also needed fixing.

* * *

Jon was exhausted, sweaty, and covered in grime by the time he was headed back to the trailer in the late afternoon. He had been able to finish everything he’d wanted to, with Arya’s help, but his shoulders and forearms ached from fixing several sets of plumbing and rehanging the shutters after Arya had greased the hinges.

All he wanted was a shower and a nap before heading up to the house for dinner like he promised Arya.

He did not want to deal with what appeared to be an angry Sansa Stark, standing outside his trailer.

Jon approached her slowly, Arya’s comment about her fresh in his mind.

“You must be Jon?” she greeted, arms crossed.

Jon took a step back, his lungs burning for lack of breath. He hadn’t inhaled since she’d made eye contact.

She had the same eyes as Robb.

“Yeah, yeah, I am. You’re Sansa?” he stuttered out after regaining his breath.

“I won’t keep you. I’d just like to talk to you about the mess,” she said, her voice taking on a falsely polite quality that set his teeth on edge and caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise.

“I’m sorry?”

Sansa stepped to the side and indicated to his recycling bin, which was currently overflowing with empty beer bottles from a bad night. Jon’s blood ran cold, seeing the bottles through her eyes.

“I…” he started but he was unable to finish.

They were from a bad night he’d had a few days ago, when he kept being reminded of Robb and Tormund everywhere. It wasn’t until he’d gotten through the fourth bottle that he stopped thinking about them.

That had been the first time he’d drank in excess since getting out and his hang over the next day had been worse than any he’d felt since he was a teenager.

He didn’t know how to explain any of that to the woman in front of him though.

“Look, I don’t care what you do on your own time. And I don’t care if they weren’t all from the same night, but my parents run a family friendly ranch. We can’t have empty bottles lying around for anyone to see. What kind of impression does that leave on the guests? If you’re going to drink, keep your recycling in the trailer, please.”

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t… didn’t think…” he mumbled, bending down to pick up the bin. “I’ll take care of it right away.”

“Okay, well…thank you.”

“Welcome,” Jon muttered as he strode past her, heading for the recycling dumpster behind the shed.

He knew she was right. He’d been meaning to take the bin up; he just hadn’t gotten a chance yet. He just hated that she’d had to ask— _tell, more like_ —him to do it. He hated the embarrassed feeling that had coiled in his stomach when she referred to it as a mess. His face was still burning.

Jon tried to remember Arya’s comment that morning. He tried to repeat it to reassure himself—not to take it personally. And he knew she was right. The bin full of empty beer bottles didn’t reflect well on the Starks or their ranch.

It didn’t look good for him either—having all of those empty bottles. It made him look like a self-medicating wreck.

Jon dumped his bin into the dumpster, wincing at the echoing _clank_ of the glass hitting more glass, several shattering. It all sounded like nails on a chalkboard to him, making his skin crawl.

On his way back to the trailer, Jon pulled out his phone to text Arya. There was no way he was coming to dinner now.

**Why not?**

_Can barely keep my eyes open._

**Dinner’s not for an hour or so yet. Take a nap. I’ll come get you when it’s ready.**

Jon sighed, knowing full well if Arya was going to come down to his trailer, there was no way he was getting out of this dinner.

He was glad to see that Sansa hadn’t waited around to see if he’d actually taken care of his recycling.

Inside the trailer, Jon stripped and stepped into the shower that was just marginally bigger than the one he’d grown used to in the military. The water was also a few degrees warmer, and Jon relished those few degrees.

He stood under the water longer than necessary, having scrubbed off the grease and washed the sweat from his body fairly quickly. He was waiting for the warm water to loosen his muscles, but they’d been tensed for so long he didn’t remember what it was like to not ache.

When the water started to run cold, Jon turned the water off and dried himself off before pulling his boxers on.

He meant to get dressed for the dinner, but he made the mistake of sitting on his bed.

 _Just five minutes,_ he told himself, lying down. He’d close his eyes for just five minutes, then he’d get dressed.

* * *

Jon awoke with a start, a hand on his bare shoulder.

“Jon, wake up,” a voice whispered.

He shot up, gasping.

“Sorry,” Arya muttered sheepishly.

It took several seconds for her to come into focus, but he recognized her voice instantly.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, clutching his right hand to his chest. Arya didn’t comment, and it took him another second to realize she was staring at his bare chest. At the five rigid scars from the shrapnel that killed him.

He tugged on the shirt closest to him.

“Sorry. I just… didn’t realize,” she murmured. “I knew you were with him, but I guess I thought… I thought you were farther away or something. I didn’t realize you’d been in the explosion too.”

Jon looked at her, surprised. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

She’d sounded sympathetic.

He’d expected anger.

“Yeah.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Dinner’s in fifteen. I’ll wait outside while you get dressed.”

Jon nodded, and waited until the door slapped shut before he got up to get dressed.

The only time he’d eaten with the Starks was the first day he’d been in Winterfell. He’d been dressed in what he’d been wearing all day. Now, though, he felt the need to wear something nice—like he should dress up.

He didn’t have any nice clothes though. He had all the clothes that had been provided by the VA and the handful of things he’d bought in the past month, none of which could be considered nice.

He considered asking Arya, but he didn’t want to seem over enthusiastic or overly anxious, so he just pulled on his newest jeans and one of the flannels he’d bought since being in Winterfell.

Jon paused before opening the door and joining Arya, fearful of how different things between them might be, now that she’d seen his scars.

Except she was Arya and when he stepped out the only thing she commented on was his flattened bedhead.

“It looks like you tried to straighten it upwards,” she told him, laughing.

“Damn,” he muttered, trying to flatten it.

“Here,” she offered, passing him a hair tie from off her wrist.

“Thanks.” He twisted his hair back, lifting it from his neck.

He’d never worn his hair up before. He was surprised at how bare his neck felt. He was surprised at how vulnerable he felt, without the curls to shake into his eyes. To hide behind.

“Mom and Dad are happy you’re coming to dinner. They wanted me to tell you you’re always welcome at the house for any meal,” Arya told him as they walked up the path to the house.

“Yeah, I know… I just can’t… be around people often.”

“Y’know, you could just say that. Instead of making excuses all the time. I mean, we’d all understand. We dealt with Robb,” she shrugged.

“I… what?”

“Robb. Whenever he’d come home on leave, he’d spend most of it in his room, avoiding everyone.”

“I… didn’t know that,” Jon admitted quietly.

“Yeah, he was always good at hiding shit, putting up a front. You’d never know if something was going on with him. Irritating as hell,” Arya muttered, kicking at the rocks in the path.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They were quiet for the rest of the walk. Jon was stuck on what Arya had said. He’d always thought of Robb as someone who could smile, unfazed, through anything and everything. He was always the one with a well-time joke to lighten any situation. He was the one who would pull Jon out of the dark places he fell into.

Jon never considered that Robb might have fallen into dark places too.

He had always thought he knew everything about Robb. He didn’t realize that there were things he’d never get to learn about him.

The thought was almost enough to make him turn around and head back to his trailer, but Arya was already opening the door and calling that they were there. He couldn’t turn around now.

“Jon, we’re so happy you’re joining us for dinner. It’s… It’s almost like everyone’s home,” Catelyn greeted, giving him a watery smile before saying _excuse me_ and ducking off to another room, her hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t realize…” he started, but Arya shushed him and pushed him further into the kitchen.

“It’s okay. She’s happy you’re here,” Ned assured him on his way past. “Arya, will you help Sansa set the table?” he added over his shoulder before he went into the same room Catelyn had.

Arya led him into the dining room and told him to sit while she went back to the kitchen to get silverware, refuting his offers to help all the while.

Feeling incredibly awkward, Jon pulled a napkin from the holder in the middle of the table and unfolded it.

During his early days in the VA, his right hand _shook_ , almost constantly, to the point it became problematic. One of the projects they’d given him to help regain function was origami. It started really simple: a fish, an elephant, a star. Then he moved on to harder ones: a crane, some 3D geometric shapes, flowers.

That’s what he was folding now. A rosebud.

It was meant for his tremor, but he found it worked for his anxiety sometimes too.

“Oh!” a voice gasped, startling him into dropping the napkin. He looked up to see Sansa paused in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.”

“Arya told me to sit here,” he said automatically, defensively.

He didn’t know why she put him on guard. Arya didn’t. Rickon didn’t. Ned didn’t. Catelyn did, a little bit, but that probably had more to do with her crying half the time he saw her than anything else.

“Okay,” she shrugged, and began to set plates on the table. “What’s that?” she asked after she placed a plate in front of him.

“Napkin,” he answered, flattening it back into a simple square.

“Oh.”

“Knife goes on the left, yeah?” Arya asked as she came back in.

“No. But it doesn’t matter,” Sansa answered him. “It’s not like we’re using multiple forks or anything. Or spoons. Just put it opposite the fork.”

If Jon hadn’t already been looking at Arya, he never would’ve seen her look of surprise at her sister’s answer. Jon wondered what it meant.

“Okay,” she said, without further comment. “Jon, Sansa, want a beer? I’m having one.”

“Water’s fine,” Jon answered quickly, the empty bottles still fresh in his mind.

“No, thank you. I already have wine.”

“I’ll bring it in,” Arya offered, ducking back out into the kitchen.

Jon saw Sansa sit out of the corner of his eye. She was on the other side of the table, two chairs down from him. The way she sat suggested to him that that was _her_ spot. The way she avoided looking at the chair next to her suggested that that was Robb’s.

Arya came back in a few moments later, cradling her beer, his water, and Sansa’s wine glass.

“Rickon, Mom, and Dad’ll be in in a minute. Said the bread needed another minute.”

Jon didn’t know what to say so he took a long drink from his water.

“Jon! I didn’t know you were coming for dinner,” Rickon exclaimed when he came in a minute later, carrying a bowl and a basket. “Arya, you couldn’t have taken one of these?”

“I had drinks for everyone! My hands were full!”

“You couldn’t have come back and taken something?”

“Well, you managed fine,” Arya argued as he set his arm loads on the table.

Ned and Catelyn coming in with the main dish stopped Rickon from replying.

“Sorry to make everyone wait,” Ned stated, claiming his seat at the head of the table. Catelyn situated the bowl of pasta in the center before sitting at the other head.

“It’s fine,” Sansa answered, sparing a glance for her mother before starting to pass the salad bowl around.

The dinner was similar to the other one he’d shared with the Starks, with the obvious exception of Sansa and the fact he was actually paying attention this time, instead of waiting for a shoe to drop.

This time he wasn’t quite as anxious. He’d been with the Starks for about a month, and they seemed to be exactly as Robb promised him they would be. He could trust them, the same way he could trust Robb. They were accepting, they were kind, they were everything he needed right now.

“So I didn’t get the full story yet,” Sansa started once there was a lull in the conversation. “How’d you guys find Jon?”

“He found us, actually,” Ned chuckled. “Showed up at our door and asked if we could use a handyman. Makes our lives easier, what with Bran staying up at the school for the summer.”

“So… he just walked by and asked for a job? You didn’t put an ad out or something?”

“Oh, no, Jon knew Robb. They were in the same squad.”

The clatter of a fork dropping onto a plate sent Jon reeling.

“But… I thought everyone in the squad… I thought no one made it out…”

He heard it as though he was under water, muffled, muted, far away. The pasta on his plate swam in and out of focus. The Starks’ dining room drifted away, wasteland taking its place.

“I… I don’t feel well. If you don’t mind… I’m—I’m going to excuse…” he mumbled, pushing himself up.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” he managed before stumbling his way out of the house.

Jon staggered to the trailer, clinging to the fence along the path to keep himself upright. He wouldn’t allow himself to collapse in the path, where the guest could see.

What kind of impression would that leave?


	4. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for disappearing! I was finishing out the year, and then left on vacation. I'd been hoping to get this up between but didn't.
> 
> Hopefully the fact it's long with make up for it.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Sansa stuttered, staring at the abandoned plate.

“It’s not your fault, dear. You didn’t know,” Catelyn murmured, reaching over and patting her hand. “Arya, when you’re done eating, would you take a plate down to Jon and check on him?”

“Yeah, a’course.”

They finished eating with awkward silence, not dissimilar from the last time she’d been home, just over six months ago.

* * *

“Is he okay?” Sansa asked, sticking a receipt in her book to hold her place. Arya sighed, flopping back on her bed.

“He’s embarrassed and still a little shaky and queasy, but he’s okay as he has been.”

“Is he… usually like that?” She wasn’t sure the polite way to ask that. She’d never seen someone experience a panic attack before. At least, she was pretty sure it was a panic attack. 

“Like that? No. But he’s quiet and jumpy. Loud sounds can trigger him.”

“How is he a handyman, then?” Sansa blurted before she could stop herself. Arya surprised her by slapping a hand to her forehead.

“Oh, I’m an idiot,” she groaned.

“Well, we all knew that. Hey!” she huffed, dodging the pillow Arya chucked at her.

“I was helping him earlier and asked why he only had a screwdriver instead of a drill if he knew he was going to take down shutters. He said he forgot it. Ugh, I’m so stupid.”

“So, um… He has… PTSD?” Sansa asked hesitantly.

“Yeah. And probably a couple other things—anxiety, depression. They usually all come together.” Sansa must’ve looked surprised or skeptical because her sister’s face suddenly morphed into a defensive mask. “I’ve been doing some reading.”

“So… he knew Robb?”

“Yeah. They were in basic together. He’s still tore up over Robb. Like, really bad,” Arya added quietly, looking mournful.

“He’s only known Robb a few years though,” Sansa said with sudden anger.

“Robb was basically his brother too,” Arya reminded. Her quiet, mature voice sent sparks of irritation down Sansa’s spine.

“ _Basically?_ He _WAS_ our brother,” she snapped. She felt tears she pricking her eyes, so she looked at the ring again, hoping it would numb her the way it had yesterday, but instead it just made her want to cry more. So she shot up, yanking the door open, and ran downstairs.

She was halfway to the trailer before she realized that she couldn’t escape there anymore.

Plus it wasn’t like Robb would be there anyway.

Instead, she stomped slowly back to the house and curled up on the porch swing.

 _Gods, I miss him,_ she thought brokenly, tugging her legs closer to her chest. A sob escaped her, so she muffled the next with her knee.

She couldn’t quite figure out what emotion was forcing the tears out—the pain and loss of not being able to run to Robb, or the anger she felt about this handyman _still being torn up_ over Robb. _Still_ as if Arya and the rest of them were over it. As if it was something any of them could ever get over.

He lost a co-worker, a friend at best. She lost a brother. Her _older brother_. His loss was not equivalent to hers. She lost so much more. Robb was her brother, her friend, her confidant, her protector. Robb was her other half. They were only a year apart. When they were younger, people mistook them for twins. Who was going to protect her now, without him here?

* * *

Sansa spent the following two weeks helping out wherever she could while still avoiding Jon. She hadn’t seen him since the dinner where he ran out, and she was completely okay with that. She had no idea how to act around him, if she should apologize for dropping her fork that night. Plus, she knew that part of her, deep down, was still upset about Arya’s comment.

She was avoiding him, but that didn’t mean she didn’t see him around, in his flannels and t-shirts, sweaty and dirty, curly hair a mess.

Even Sansa would admit that, from a distance, he was fairly attractive. And he seemed nice, from what she heard from everyone else in her family. She just didn’t know how to be around him.

So, Sansa decided that not seeing the handyman was the easiest course of action. Just like not answering Harry’s calls was the easiest course of action. And still wearing his ring was the easiest course of action.

The only thing she couldn’t easily avoid was Robb’s door.

* * *

“Good news,” Ned announced, striding into the kitchen covered in dust.

“Ew, Dad, I just swept in here!” she shrieked, turning away from the sink of soap water where she’d been washing dishes.

“Oh, oops, sorry,” he muttered, backing up to the laundry room. “We got all of the stuff moved out of your room. You don’t have to bunk with Arya anymore,” he added, coming back into the kitchen in clean clothes.

“Really? Thanks! Where’d it all go?”

“Basement. Just needed some extra muscle to haul it down.” Sansa shot him a confused look over her shoulder. Sure, Rickon was getting older, but she didn’t really think he qualified as _muscle_. He still had baby fat. “Jon helped. Actually, _that’s_ why I came in. I was supposed to be grabbing us beers,” he muttered, going to the fridge.

Sansa went back to the dishes, trying to figure out why she was stuck on the concept of Jon being in her room. Though, technically, it had been essentially functioning as a storage unit.

It shouldn’t be a big deal. She’d had boys in her room before. Harry and her used to share her childhood bed when they came to visit. Hell, she was pretty sure boys she didn’t know had been in her room once or twice before. They’d been Robb’s friends he’d brought back when he was on leave.

She suddenly realized Jon very well could’ve been one of the friends Robb had brought back before they deployed. Jon could’ve stayed in her room.

Sansa expected the thought to irritate her, or make her feel uncomfortable somehow, but it didn’t. Instead, she wondered what he’d thought of her, based on her room alone.

* * *

Sansa couldn’t explain how good it felt to sleep in a bed—her own bed—after two weeks of sleeping on a futon. She went to her room— _her room_ —right after dinner just to finally be in her own space, with her own stuff, her own sheets, her own pillow.

This was finally what she’d wanted. This was what she came for.

Sansa was sitting on her window seat with her book, listening to the night sounds of the country that was so unlike what she heard in the Vale, in the city. The crickets, cicadas, and the stream that ran parallel to the property. There were no cars, horns, sirens, or people yelling. It was peaceful. 

Even the guitar—

_The guitar?_

Her heart jumped into her throat.

_Robb!_

Sansa was out of her room and down the path before her brain caught up with her heart.

She stopped in the middle of the path, only a handful of feet away from the trailer the guitar music was coming from.

It wasn’t Robb playing the guitar. It _couldn’t_ be Robb playing the guitar. But it sure sounded like him. He was the only one in the family who could play.

Sansa continued up to the trailer regardless and sat quietly on the fold out steps. She knew it wasn’t Robb, but if she closed her eyes, it was only too easy to pretend it was.

She leaned her head against the door, imagining it was ten years ago, before he enlisted and they would come home from summer parties and hide out in the trailer until they were sober enough to sneak into the house without getting caught. Robb would always haul out his guitar and pick out chords to songs they’d heard at the party.

 _Gods, it’s been so long since I’ve heard anyone play,_ she thought, listening to the gentle strumming. It had to have been when they were still in high school, the last time Robb picked up his guitar. Once he enlisted, it stayed in the trailer. After he enlisted, he didn’t go out to the trailer.

Sansa found herself almost drifting off, leaning against the door, but the sound of the guitar stopping jolted her awake and up from the door.

She moved just in time, because seconds later the door squeaked open.

“Can I help you?” Jon asked, standing where she’d been sitting only moments before.

“I… I was just listening to you play,” she said after a pause, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize it carried…”

“Oh, no, it’s okay. It’s, um…” she trailed off, pulling her hoodie tighter around herself. “It’s been a while since anyone’s played the guitar around here.”

Sansa could see Jon process the words and the moment her meaning sunk in was clear on his face. The horrified shock made her gut twist. That wasn’t what she’d meant.

“No, no, no,” she stuttered, stepping forward suddenly. “It… It sounded good,” she shrugged, unable to force anything else out.

Jon stared at her like he had no idea what to say to her.

“Thanks,” he said finally, after far too long a silence.

“Well… um… good night,” she mumbled finally, turning and heading back up the path when he didn’t respond.

* * *

Sansa didn’t hear the guitar the next night, or the following. It was a week later when she heard the guitar again. She was sitting on her window seat again, a book open in her lap but she hadn’t been paying attention to it for quite a while now. She couldn’t remember what was happening in it.

When the strumming started, Sansa didn’t even bother with the pretense of keeping her book open. She sat quietly listening to it for a few minutes, but then Rickon’s music started in the room next door. It easily drowned out the sound of Jon playing the guitar.

Sighing, she pulled a blanket around her shoulders and decided to move down to the porch. She could listen to Jon play from the porch. Except once she got to the porch, her feet kept moving, until she was in front of the trailer again.

Only this time, she knocked.

The guitar playing cut off instantly, and she stumbled back from the door, suddenly second-guessing her action. She didn’t know Jon. She had no idea how he would react to her knocking on his door, especially considering that they didn’t exactly start off on a good note.

“Oh…” he said when he opened the door. Sansa decided the disappointment didn’t offend her. “I thought you were Arya,” he added after a moment of them staring at each other.

“Nope. Just me,” she muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. This was a mistake. She had no idea how to act around this man. And he clearly didn’t want company.

“Do you need something?” he asked.

“Oh, um, no. I heard you playing and, um… I was wondering if I could listen to you play?” she forced out, hitching her shoulders high around her ears.

“You want to come in?” he clarified. Sansa pretended she didn’t hear unmasked surprise in his voice.

“I mean… If that’s okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon in.” He held the door open wide for her to slip past.

Stepping into the trailer, Sansa had to blink back tears. She hadn’t been in this trailer since high school, with Robb. It’d barely changed.

She could easily spot the new additions: the dishes and pots in the sink, the boxes of clothes on the couch. The quilt the bed was the same though. And it was the same guitar.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess.” Jon squeezed around her to move some of the boxes and give her a place to sit.

“It’s okay.”

She curled into the arm of the sofa, the way she’d done so often when she was younger.

Sansa watched the awkward way Jon maneuvered around the trailer, in the cramped space, the way he sat on their old quilt. The way he handled Robb’s guitar. The hesitancy in his hands as he reached for it—she thought she almost saw his right hand tremble as he cradled the body.

She watched his fingers ghost over the strings, but he was suddenly putting the guitar back down again.

“D’ya want something to drink?” he asked, voice seeming loud in the quiet trailer.

“A beer?” she shrugged.

Sansa curled her knees closer to herself to avoid them accidentally brushing Jon as he passed to the fridge. She watched him pull two bottles from the door and pop them open with the counter. Robb had taught her that trick, once.

“Thanks,” she muttered, taking the cold bottle from him. She took a long pull, hoping it would help settle whatever it was she was feeling, being in the trailer. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jon do the same, except when he set his bottle down, she saw that it was nearly half empty.

Sansa kept her eyes focused on the label of her beer, hoping not looking at him would give him whatever privacy he needed to pick up the guitar and start strumming again.

After a few awkwardly quiet minutes, Sansa heard the _thrum_ of the guitar being lifted again. It was another handful of minutes before she heard his fingers slide along the strings and he started to play.

By the time he reached the chorus, Sansa realized that she knew the song he was playing. It wasn’t one she ever remembered Robb playing, but she was pretty sure it was in the guitar book Robb had kept in the trailer.

The second time the chorus came around, Sansa was singing under her breath, nearly empty beer bottle cradled in her hands.

“ _And I don’t want the world to see me, ‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand, When everything’s meant to be broken, I just want you to know who I am…_ ”

She glanced at him, hoping she wasn’t loud enough for him to hear, but his head was still hung over the guitar, watching his own hands. Spurred on by the beer and the nostalgia of the song, being in the trailer, and hearing the guitar, Sansa sang the rest of the song to herself.

“You have a good voice,” Jon said when the song finished. Sansa blushed, finishing her beer.

“I didn’t realize…” she mumbled, trailing off.

“Want another?” he asked, taking her empty bottle. Sansa noticed the gentle way he set the glass in the recycling bin so that they didn’t make much noise.

“Sure.”

 When he sat back down, he didn’t immediately pick the guitar back up, but instead leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I’m sorry if that a song he used to play… It’s the only one I’ve learned so far.”

“No, no, it’s okay. He never learned that one. I just knew it.”

“Oh.”

“He, um… He usually only played songs we’d heard at parties. We’d hide out in here until we were sober enough to sneak into the house. Arya had given him the book for Christmas one year,” Sansa offered quietly.

It was strange to talk about him. It was even stranger to talk about him to someone who didn’t know him the same way she had.

Jon surprised her by chuckling.

“I was wondering why I didn’t remember him playing any of these on base. All he ever played was Top 40s that never sounded right on an acoustic guitar.”

“He played over there?” Sansa asked, surprised.

“Yeah. At least, he did early on.”

“I never heard him play, after he enlisted. He quit coming down here, too.”

“You know, I never realized…” Jon started, breaking eye contact and taking a large drink from his bottle. Sansa waited for him to continue. “I never realized…how effected he had been by everything. He always seemed like nothing fazed him.”

“He’s always been like that,” Sansa said quickly, without thinking. She rushed on before her brain could catch up to her mouth. “He went through this really bad break up in high school—he was wrecked by it—but you’d only know if you could hear what he was listening to on his iPod. To everyone’s face, he was fine. He’d never let anyone see how bad he was hurting.”

Jon shared a similar story—Sansa hadn’t known that Robb had actually gotten a Dear John letter while deployed. They talked quietly, easily, sharing stories about Robb. Sansa was surprised at how easy it was to talk to Jon—to talk to Jon about Robb. She didn’t even realize that she was barely drinking her beer anymore.

It was hours later when Sansa started yawning.

“I’d better go, if either of us want to get up in the morning,” Sansa said, finishing the last of her beer.

“Oh, right, yeah…”

“I’ll, um… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“It was nice talking to you, Jon.”

“It…it was nice talking to you, too.”

“Good night,” she whispered, more to herself than to him, as she dipped to quietly lay her bottle in the bin.

* * *

Sansa couldn’t explain it, but the whole next day she was looking forward to something she wasn’t even sure was going to happen. She was looking forward to when she heard the guitar again, so she could go down and talk to Jon more.

She sat at her window seat again that night, waiting—hoping—to hear him play. When she didn’t hear it around the same time she’d heard it the other two nights, she wondered if maybe she’d pushed it too far last night. If maybe he wasn’t ready to talk about Robb. Or if maybe he didn’t want to talk about Robb with her.

Sansa nearly fell asleep on her window seat, waiting to hear the guitar that never started.

* * *

Later in the week, there was a surprising lull at the ranch. There were only two couples renting cabins, and her parents could easily handle the cooking and cleaning for them. It was the first time since she came to Winterfell that Sansa wasn’t busy with something.

After an hour of her futzing around the kitchen, Catelyn kicked her out, saying she was underfoot, which Sansa might have found hilarious, given that used to be Arya’s nickname when she was in middle school, if the prospect of having free time didn’t absolutely terrify her.

Which was how she found herself in the attic.

Really, the idea hadn’t actually occurred to her until she was already up there. She just needed to _do_ something, and it was the only thing she could think of to do.

A lot of the stuff up there was junk anyway: boxes of artwork from when they were kids, Beanie Babies that might have been worth something online if they had been kept in decent condition, records her parents never got rid of, despite the fact she never remembered them owning a record player.

Most of it Sansa ended up hauling out to the dumpsters, and the rest of it she condensed into a handful of boxes that she moved down to the basement with the rest of their childhood memories.

There were a few boxes she didn’t touch—the ones all marked with _Robb._

She didn’t bother to open them either. She just shoved them in the corner out of the way where she wouldn’t have to deal with them. She wasn’t sure which would be worse—opening them and finding stuff when they were younger, or opening them and finding stuff from his bedroom.

It was mid-afternoon when she heard the stairs creaking. She was relatively unsurprised to see it was Arya.

“You’ve been busy,” she commented, looking around at the cleared space.

Sansa paused to survey the work she’d done. It almost looked like a living space.

“Any reason you’re clearing out this space?”

“I thought maybe Jon could stay up here, instead of the trailer. If he’s planning on being here a while,” Sansa shrugged. The reason for cleaning out the attic hadn’t occurred to her until she was answering Arya’s question.

Arya stared at her.

“What? You know how cramped the trailer is. He’s been living in it for two months. All his clothes are in boxes on the couch. Plus, if he stays here, we can move the trailer up to Granddad’s, and it wouldn’t be on the path to the cabins.”

“How’d you know that?” Arya asked, eyeing Sansa closely.

“Know what?”

“That his clothes are all in boxes on the couch.”

“I went down to talk to him the other night,” she shrugged again. Arya kept staring at her, so Sansa started shuffling boxes around again.

She didn’t want to explain any more, because she didn’t know how to explain any more. She wasn’t sure _why_ she was doing this, other than needing to move and do something. She couldn’t handle sitting still. She’d barely sat still since she got home, and every time she did, she either saw Harry in bed with that woman, or Robb’s casket being lowered into the ground. She wasn’t sure which was worse.

She wasn’t doing this _for_ Jon. She was doing it for herself. It just happened to also benefit Jon.

“Want a hand?” Arya asked after a long pause. “I can help Rickon bring up the spare furniture.”

“Sure.”

* * *

Sansa was sweaty and covered in grime by the time Ned found them in the attic to call them to dinner.

“What’s all this about?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“We thought if Jon’s going to be staying with us for a while, he might need some more space,” Arya answered.

Sansa was glad for it. She didn’t want to take credit for it. She didn’t want them to think she was doing something to make Jon a more permanent place in their home. She still didn’t know how she felt about him being there at all. But she knew that Robb was never in the attic, the way he was in the trailer.

“Good idea. Look’s nice. Rick, why don’t you invite Jon to dinner tonight, and you guys can show him the space?”

“Do I have time to shower?” Sansa asked, wiping her hands on her pants.

“A quick one, sure.” Sansa nodded and headed for the door, but Ned’s hand dropping on her shoulder stopped her. “This was a really nice idea,” he said again, and Sansa felt herself flush, as if he knew it had been her idea.

Sansa changed into sweats after her shower and braided her wet hair so it didn’t drip everywhere, but she hadn’t left her bedroom yet. She stood near the door, biting her nail.

The idea of seeing Jon again made her flare with nerves. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the other night, or if it was because of cleaning out the attic, but she felt like something between them—at least on her end—had shifted. Between those two events, she could no longer simply write him off as the quiet handyman her parents found. Now he was Jon—Robb’s friend, Jon. And she didn’t know what to do with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to be back to once a week for a while. 
> 
> Also, please remember that this is fiction and I only have so many resources available to me. I want to make it as authentic as possible, but there are things I just have to rely on my imagination on, so thanks for your understanding if things aren't 100% authentic.


	5. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon does have an attack in this chapter, so be warned if that sort of thing triggers you.

Dinner had gone significantly better than last time, he thought. He had managed to make it all the way through, at least. When Rickon had come by the trailer, Jon had adamantly refused, not wanting a repeat of what had happened last time. He still felt sick when he thought about it. He had wanted to call Dr. Tarth the next morning and scream that he wasn’t better, he wasn’t fine, what were they thinking releasing him into the world, but he knew what she would say.

_Recovery isn’t a straight line._

_Lean on your support system._

Too bad he didn’t have one. But he couldn’t tell her that. Plus, it wasn’t like the Starks were refusing to get to know him or give him a place to stay. He just kept to himself, away from any potential blast zones or fallout.

Which was why he hadn’t picked up the guitar again, since that night Sansa came down to listen to him play. Talking with her felt so good, and it was so easy, it was almost like Robb was back. He could easily see himself quickly becoming friends with her, because she was so much like Robb. But Jon couldn’t let himself get close to another kind, redheaded Stark, not when he was still broken from losing Robb.

* * *

Jon had only been upstairs one other time, and that had been when Ned had asked him to help move stuff from one of the bedrooms to the basement, so he had no idea why Arya was leading him up the stairs. She’d said they had a surprise for him, but she was the only one with him. Rickon, Ned, and Catelyn had all volunteered to take care of the kitchen, and Sansa had disappeared as soon as she was done eating.

“You didn’t sneak some animal in your room or something, did you?” He vaguely remembered a story Robb had told about Arya finding a raccoon or something and deciding to keep it as a pet.

“That was one time! And I didn’t try to keep it—I was just nursing it back to health. But, no. That’s not what I want to show you. Up here,” she said, opening a door Jon had never noticed. He was surprised to see a set of stairs.

“The attic?” he questioned.

“Trust me,” she said before bounding up the stairs. Jon followed slowly behind her.

Jon had no idea what he was expecting for the attic, probably another storage room, similar to the basement. He certainly wasn’t expecting a room. Glancing around, he saw a pile of boxes shoved in the corner, all marked _Robb._

Seven hells, Arya wasn’t showing him Robb’s room, was she?

“Arya…” he warned, crossing his arms in front of his chest. If he pressed his arms close enough, he could feel the reassurance of his heart beating. Though it was probably going faster than it should have been.

“What? OH! No, no, no,” she said immediately, stepping into his eye line so that he wasn’t staring at the boxes. “This wasn’t Robb’s room. This is the attic. We cleared it out and moved up some extra furniture. We thought you could stay here, if you wanted. You’d have more space,” she shrugged.

Jon looked around again, forcing his arms to uncross and shoving them into his pockets instead. There was a dresser, a full size bed, a futon, and an armchair. There was definitely more space in here than in the trailer.

There was one huge difference though.

There was significantly less privacy here. No little kitchen, no bathroom, no space away from the rest of the house and the Starks. The idea of being so close, so within reach, made his skin itch.

“What’d’ya think?” Arya asked. Jon realized he’d been quiet for too long and his arms crept up to his chest again.

The gesture was too big, too nice, and Jon didn’t know what to do with that. He couldn’t accept that—he didn’t deserve that—but he couldn’t tell her no, either. He didn’t want to reject this sweet gesture.

“You did all of this for me?” he asked instead.

“We did. Rickon, Sansa, and I.”

 _Oh, well, that just makes it worse,_ Jon thought. He wound his arms tighter against his torso.

“What’re you thinking?” Arya’s voice was quiet.

“That this is too much,” he muttered before he could stop himself. “Moving into the house, it’s too…” He trailed off when he realized what he was saying.

“Permanent?” she suggested.

“Yeah…” he sighed. Permanent—that was it. Moving into the Starks’ house was permanent, and he wasn’t in a place for that. Moving into the Starks’ felt more like trying to become part of their family than he wanted.

The trailer was much better suited to his needs, even if it was cramped and a little out of the way.

“Okay,” Arya shrugged. “Well… It’s here, if you want it.”

“Thanks,” Jon muttered, feeling his arms loosen a little. “Thanks, for this too.”

“No problem, Jon.” She patted him on the arm before skipping back down the stairs.

Jon looked around the room one last time. It was much more space than he had in the trailer. And it would require him to interact more with the Starks, which would probably be good for him, because right now Rickon popped down to his trailer with a list of things he should do for the day, and Arya would usually stop by at some point, but that was it. He’d gone whole days only saying a handful of words, and he knew Dr. Tarth wouldn’t be happy about that. He was supposed to be working on improving his social skills and putting himself in situations to work through his anxiety and PTSD.

But no, Jon couldn’t move into the attic. The trailer was where he belonged.

Jon didn’t see Arya on his way back out, but he did bump into Sansa.

“Hey, did Arya show you the attic?” she asked.

Jon fought to keep his arms from crossing.

“Yeah, she did.”

“What’d you think?”

“Um, it’s great, but… I think I’m going to stay in the trailer for a bit longer, if that’s okay?”

“Oh! Yeah, sure. We just thought you’d like a little more space,” she shrugged. Jon noticed the way she took a half step back and he tried not to flinch. Something in her face looked hurt, and Jon hated the idea that he was the one to cause that.

“Wanna come down for a beer?” he asked, hoping to get rid of that look. Even though he knew he’d probably regret it in the morning. Actually, he regretted it the moment the words came out of his mouth and her lips parted.

“Oh, um, sure. Yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah? Okay,” he muttered. He really didn’t expect her to say yes. He motioned awkwardly for her to go first, then shoved his hands back into his pockets, following a half step behind.

“How’s being a handyman?” she asked as they walked down the path.

“It’s good. It’s much better than anything I thought I was going to end up doing,” he admitted quietly.

“What’d you think you’d end up doing?”

“Bagging groceries,” he confessed, holding the door open for her.

“Really? But, I mean…” She paused, opening her beer and taking a large swig. “You seem more… Aren’t there more options?” she said finally. He sat next to her on the couch, moving the boxes of clothes out of the way. He took a sip before answering.

“I mean, the VA center I was at got me an interview at a bookstore, but I skipped it.”

“Why?”

“I kept seeing myself dropping a book and the sound…” he trailed off. He didn’t need to be telling her this. There was no way she cared about why he skipped an interview to work at a bookstore.

“Like that first dinner?” she whispered.

“Yeah, yeah, like that.”

“You didn’t want to work around people,” Sansa supplied. He let out a gruff chuckle in surprise.

“Yeah, there’s that too.”

“So, um, sorry about that dinner by the way,” she said quietly. Jon noticed the way she curled her legs up under her, balancing the bottle on her knee.

“It’s okay—you didn’t know,” he shrugged, not wanting to dwell on it. Or even think about how bad of a first impression he made.

Jon realized that Sansa must’ve sensed this, because she suddenly moved them to safer topics.

* * *

Jon decided he was taking a day off. He’d stayed up late, again, talking to Sansa. They’d split a six-pack and it had been well into the night when she headed out. As much as he didn’t like the idea of getting close to anyone, Sansa—who looked so much like Robb, specifically—she was just so easy to talk to.

And before she came up, he’d barely talked to anyone. He spoke to Rickon and Arya, but it wasn’t talking. And though he knew Arya would definitely listen if he wanted to talk to her, there was something different about talking to Sansa.

Sansa hadn’t see him that first month, the way Arya had. He wasn’t great—he was barely even better—but he had been an absolute wreck that first month. He’d been barely functional. He’d do whatever Rickon asked, and curl up in his bed and sleep for hours. He lived off cheap deli sandwiches and off-brand cereal he ate dry out of the box because he couldn’t be bothered with anything else.

He wasn’t better, but at least he was eating normal meals and showering regularly.

It was easier to talk to Sansa, who saw him as functioning and relatively normal, which was why he stayed up late talking to her. Again.

And now he was talking a day off—the first day off he’d taken in his two months of working for the Starks.

It was Sunday, only one couple had rented a cottage for the weekend, and no one was supposed to be checking in until Wednesday. He could take a day off and sleep in. So when his alarm went off at six, he turned it off, rolled over, pulled the covers up higher, and went back to sleep.

* * *

The sunlight streaming through the slotted blinds woke Jon up, but he was so unused to waking up with the sun in his face that it immediately sent him reeling, too similar to another bright flash that had sent his life off course.

His ears rang, like they had after the explosion. Red filled his vision. He couldn’t move, but he had to move— _he had to move_. He had to get to them. Any of them. Anyone.

Except he couldn’t move. He was stuck. Trapped. He couldn’t help them.

He couldn’t save them.

The sound of someone talking drew Jon back. It drew him back just enough that he was able to drag himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where there was no light.

Curled in the shower stall, he pressed his eyes against the back of his arm, forcing stars to pop up instead of the images he’d been seeing.

At least he hadn’t thrown up, he thought, once he’d calmed down enough to think coherently. The last time he’d had an attack that bad, he’d thrown up.

Anger flared through him suddenly.

The sun had set off the attack. Sleeping in late.

He was so fucking far from normal.

* * *

Jon didn’t leave the bathroom until the sun had moved to the other side of the sky, and was no longer shining in through the trailer windows. He drank a bottle of water to make up for the amount he’d sweated out sitting in the shower stall. He knew he should eat something, but he was still clinging to the fact that he hadn’t thrown up, and he didn’t want to do anything that might change that.

His original plan for the day was to spend it in the trailer, but after that idea was blown to shit, he felt the need to get out. For the first time, the trailer felt cramped, like the walls were closing in around him.

The only problem was he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t have anywhere to go.

Feeling trapped, he stumbled outside, past the point of caring.

When the door slammed shut, he saw a note that had been taped to it. It was a list Rickon must’ve delivered it that morning, either when he’d been asleep or losing his shit in the bathroom.

Jon hadn’t planned on doing any work today, and he typically didn’t do anything after having an attack like that, but there was a jitteriness filling him, compelling him to move, to do something, get his mind off that morning.

Plus, he was fine. He’d spent a few hours in the dark recovering, drank quite a bit of water. His right hand wasn’t fully shaking—it quivered a little—but not enough that it rendered him incapable of completing any of the tasks. He’d just take it slow. He’d be fine.

* * *

He made it through a handful of small tasks without issue. He was actually feeling better. The fact that he’d been able to complete these tasks—more than just menial, day-to-day tasks that Dr. Tarth had assigned him to help work through the aftershock—that was enough to almost make him smile. It boosted his confidence enough that he thought he could challenge himself—complete a chore that wasn’t quite as simple as the other ones had been, like fixing a few garbage disposals and unsticking a few windows.

No, he was fine. He could replace a few light bulbs on a stepladder. That was nice and easy.

The light fixture that needed lights replaced was in the front half of one of the family cottages, which meant it was in a vaulted ceiling. Jon hadn’t realized that, but it was still just standing on a ladder and screwing in a light. Even if he was going to have to a regular ladder to reach the lights. No big deal.

Jon did the first few fine—twisting out the dead bulbs, screwing in the new ones, stepping down, stepping up.

It was when he climbed down for the fourth time, dead bulb in hand, that he felt a little dizzy. The cottage was warm and given the fact that he hadn’t eaten, he wasn’t all that surprised when he had black spots sparkling in his vision.

Carefully, he set the dead bulb down, then allowed himself to drop into a nearby chair, giving himself a minute to recover.

Once his vision cleared, he took the last new bulb up the eight steps of the ladder.

He should’ve recognized that his hand was shaking. He should’ve felt that his knees were giving out. He should’ve known better than to push himself like this.

But he didn’t.

Jon came to on the floor, light bulb shattered next to him.

His first thought was relief that he hadn’t landed on the bulb.

His second was the pain radiating from his elbow.

* * *

The tension in the car on the ride to the hospital was enough to dull the pain he felt on the side he’d landed on. Ned’s knuckles looked white on the wheel and Arya was next to him, starting anxiously every time he winced.

He could see the fear in her eyes, and still hear how she’d shouted at him when he’d stumbled into the kitchen, dizzy and clutching his arm.

“What happened?” she’d yelled. “You could’ve called! We would’ve come to get you!”

“I… I wasn’t thinking…” he mumbled.

“Oh, clearly.”

She’d hollered for someone to get the truck then, and Jon was pretty sure he might’ve passed out again.

* * *

The smell of the ER set him on edge. He didn’t really remember much of the time he’d spent in the hospital after he’d been flown back, but he remembered the smell. Sharp, too clean, sterile. Mix that with the pain in his arm, and Jon almost forgot when he was.

It was Arya’s constant chatter—reprimands really—that kept him grounded. She called him stupid a few times, and in a different context it might’ve made Jon smile. Right now, he was just grateful to still be hearing her.

“How much longer are they going to make us wait? He’s broken his elbow, at least,” she grumbled, bouncing her leg.

“They’ll call us soon,” Ned answered.

 _Us,_ Jon thought, clinging to the word. They’d said _us_ not _him._

* * *

 

After what Jon thought was far too long and had had multiple tests done, including an x-ray and a CT, he was fitted with a cast, a sling, and pain meds for his broken elbow and cracked rib.

“Both should be mostly healed in about six weeks, long as your resting. No using your arm before then, and absolutely no lifting. Take these as needed, but no more than four a day. Do you live alone?”

“No,” Jon answered honestly. It was almost the first time in his life he could.

“Good. You’ll need help with a lot of tasks. What do you do for work?”

“I’m a handyman.”

“Will you be able to support yourself for six weeks? If not, I’m sure your insurance…”

“It’s fine,” Jon cut her off.

“Okay. Good. Well, I think you’re good to go. I’ll send your discharge papers up to the desk for your dad to fill out.”

“Oh, no, he’s not…” he stared, but the doctor was already gone. “He’s not my dad,” he finished anyway.

* * *

The ride back was less tense, but Jon had also been given a dose of pain medicine which he figured probably contributed to his ease.

That was, until they pulled into the drive and Catelyn flew out the front door.

“Jon! Are you okay?” she asked, stopping just short of reaching him. Jon wondered if she had thought to hug him, but the thought floated away quickly.

“’M fine.”

“He’s on some pain meds,” he heard Arya say. “C’mon.” He felt her hand on his back and even in his fuzzy state, Jon was pretty sure it was the first human contact, aside from doctors, he’d had since he left the VA two months ago.

He expected her to help him to the trailer, but instead he was led into the house.

“Where’re we going?”

“You can’t stay in your trailer, Jon. You’re going to need help. You can’t be on your own.”

“But…”

Arya shushed him and steered him towards the attic.

“The nurse said you should get some sleep. Those meds will probably make you drowsy anyway. One of us will bring some dinner up later. Text me if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, collapsing onto the bed, eyes already shut.

* * *

Jon woke up to a gentle knocking. At first, he thought he must’ve been back in the VA, getting woken up to go on an outing. The soft woman’s voice calling his name through the door told him he wasn’t.

He sat up just as Sansa came in.

“Arya told me what happened. How’re you feeling?”

“Groggy.”

“Mom’s getting ready to make dinner. Got any requests?”

“What?”

“I dunno, a comfort food or something? What’d you used to eat when you were sick as a kid?” She leaned against the doorframe, and though she was blurry, Jon thought she was radiant.

Jon shrugged, causing a shooting pain in his arm. He must’ve reacted, because Sansa was suddenly at his side, her hand outstretched.

“Are… are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“So… dinner?” she asked after a beat.

“I… I don’t have one.”

“Nothing? Your mom never made you mac’n’cheese or anything?”

“No,” he whispered.

“Well, then, what’s your favorite food?”

“Anything that’s not freeze dried.”

“Helpful,” she snorted. “What’d you dream about eating when you were over there?”

That question made Jon pause. A lot of men, a lot of his brothers, often talked about the meal they most looked forward to having during leave. It was always something homecooked. Their mothers’ meatloaf or their wives’ lasagna. Jon never really joined in on those conversations because he never really had homecooked meals. Most of his childhood was takeout and frozen dinners.

“What’s your favorite dish?” he asked instead. He really didn’t want to try to explain his childhood to Sansa. Not while he was hopped up on pain meds.

“Lemon chicken. But I love anything with lemon in it.”

“Chicken sounds good.”

“Lemon chicken? I’ll let her know.” She turned to leave.

“Sansa?”

“Hmm?” She turned back to him, her eyebrows raised. He wasn’t sure if it was the drugs he was on or the lighting, but for the first time it didn’t hurt to look at her. She was starting to look less and less like Robb, and more just like Sansa.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, Jon. I’ll bring dinner up in a little bit.” She smiled at him before she left and Jon felt a warmth flooding through him. He wrote it off as a side effect of his pain meds.

After Jon left, he laid back down, thinking he might drift off again. His body felt tired still, but his mind was suddenly clear. He tried to erase the imagine of Sansa standing in the doorway. He liked it too much and he couldn’t allow himself to do anything that stupid. He already lost one redheaded Stark. He couldn’t bear to get that close to another.

Despite that, when Sansa came back up with his tray a little while later, he found himself asking her to stay.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It—” _It’s been lonely,_ he was going to say. “I’d rather not eat alone,” he said instead, even though he was very, very used to eating alone.

“Yeah, sure. Okay. I’ll go grab my plate.”

Several minutes later, Sansa was sat cross-legged at the end of the bed, a plate balanced in her lap.

“So… how’d… how’d it happen?” she asked, waving her fork at his arm. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I hadn’t eaten this morning and thought I could replace a few light bulbs on a ladder. Guess I got lightheaded.”

“You fell?”

“Yeah.”

Jon picked up his fork with his left hand and tried to stab a piece of chicken with it. He missed, jamming the tines into the plate instead. His face heated with embarrassment.

“Do… Can I help?” Sansa asked after two more failed attempts of spearing the chicken.

The last thing he wanted was to be helpless, and he couldn’t think of anything more helpless than not being able to feed himself, but he also couldn’t get his damn hand to work. He tried one last time with his left hand, and again, he missed.

“Yeah,” he finally whispered.

Sansa took his plate and instead of feeding him like he thought she was going to, she lined the pieces of chicken up so that he could feed himself. She passed the plate back and Jon attempted for a fourth time to eat his dinner. This time the tines of his fork sank into the meat and he maneuvered it to his mouth successfully.

After that, they ate quietly, but it wasn’t conversation that Jon had been yearning for. It had been company.

After Arya touched his back, he realized just how starved for human contact he’d been. He could still feel the warmth of her hand on his back. He could still feel the tenderness of her touch.

Not that he wanted Sansa to touch him. No, no. He just wanted someone to be close to him. He’d nearly forgotten what it felt like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the elbow seems kind of dramatic, but I needed a way to get him into the attic because I didn't think with where he was at, he would accept a gesture like that without something forcing his hand.


	6. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update!

Sansa had just started to drift off when she heard the yelling. At first, she thought it was coming from Rickon’s room next door. He’d sometimes fall asleep watching movies or with his music too loud. Sighing, she threw her covers off to go turn his TV down but once she was in the hall, the yelling turned to screams.

It was coming from the attic.

Suddenly panicked, Sansa tore up the stairs and into the attic.

She thought for sure she’d see Jon injured more than he already was or someone breaking into the attic or something. She didn’t expect to see him still asleep on the bed.

At first, she thought that he must’ve just rolled onto his bad side, until she saw that he was thrashing, legs tangled in his blankets, and good arm outstretched.

She remembered one of the last times Robb was home, she’d found him in a similar state to this. She’d felt equally helpless then, but at least with Robb she’d been comfortable enough to touch him, comfort him.

But when Jon started to switch onto his right side, his injured side, Sansa slid in beside him to keep him from putting weight on his arm.

She caught his good arm and clung tightly to him, whispering that he was okay, he was safe, the same way she had with Robb.

After a while, whatever dream he was having must’ve changed. His grunts and whimpers turned into snoring and his legs finally stopped twitching. She had nearly fallen asleep cradling him.

Sansa quickly slipped back out of the bed, suddenly wondering what she’d been doing. That must’ve been crossing a boundary—or several. She just hadn’t known what to do.

Backing away from the bed slowly, Sansa sat on the futon, watching his face, the way she’d been doing far too often recently.

She wasn’t sure when it started, but looking at Jon’s face, being with Jon, it broke down a lot of the numbness she’d been feeling since she’d walked in on Harry and that woman. Since she’d gotten that phone call that called her north.

And not being numb with him didn’t hurt the way she thought it would.

When she left Winterfell all those months ago, she closed herself off. She knew she did. She couldn’t handle that aching pain she felt, as if someone had punched a hole through her stomach. She hadn’t expected any of that to wane. The few times she’d started to pay attention the pain always came flooding back, fresh and raw—like it had when she’d first come back two months ago.

But with Jon the pain felt different—muted, dulled. Even on the nights when they stayed up late talking about Robb, sharing memories, what she felt wasn’t really pain—it was more of a release. She always felt lighter after talking with Jon. Like she wasn’t the only one carrying the burden of her grief.

She wondered if he felt the same. If that’s why he sometimes invited her down to his trailer.

Sansa suddenly thought she understood why Jon had come to them—to feel closer to Robb. She certainly felt closer to him when she was with Jon, and he no doubt felt the same with all of them.

She curled herself on the futon, deciding that she might as well sleep there—just in case.

* * *

When she woke up the next morning, she was glad to see that Jon was still asleep. That meant she could sneak out without him knowing. She didn’t want to have to explain why she’d slept on his futon.

It was still early enough that everyone else was still asleep, so no one saw her close the attic door and open her own.

She had planned on getting a little bit more sleep—maybe thirty minutes or so, but when she laid down, she realized her brain was wide awake.

She was trying to process what had happened last night. She’d seen the same thing with Robb—the nightmares he had the last few times he’d come home during leave. She remembered holding him until he fell back asleep. She remembered Arya calling her and having whispered conversations, trying to figure out what they could do to help. They’d never come up with a solution, because the next time he’d come back was in a box.

But they could help Jon.

Sansa remembered that Arya had said she’d done some reading on Jon’s condition. She knew he had PTSD. She might know something that could help whatever happened to him last night.

Before she realized it, she was back out of her bed and knocking on Arya’s door.

“Seven hells, it’s early,” Arya grumbled when she finally opened it.

“You remember those nightmares Robb used to have?”

“You mean night terrors?”

“Sure, whatever. I think Jon had one last night.”

“What? Are you sure?” Arya asked, suddenly holding the door open wider. Sansa stepped in and perched on Arya’s futon.

“I think so. He was screaming. I thought he’d rolled onto his elbow or something. But he was still asleep.”

“Damn, I didn’t hear anything. You didn’t try to wake him, did you?”

“No, I just kept him from moving his bad arm. Why? Should I have?”

“Not according to the articles I’ve read. They said the disorientation can sometimes be worse.”

“Oh,” Sansa breathed.

“How—How much do you know about Jon?”

“What’d you mean?”

“About his service?”

“Not much,” Sansa shrugged. “It’s not like we talk about what he saw. We mostly talk about Robb.” Sansa just caught the look Arya gave. She wanted to ask what it meant, but her sister was digging around in her desk and talking already.

“I don’t know much other than he was the only one in the squad who made it back, and not because he wasn’t with them, which was what we all thought. He was the only survivor.”

Sansa’s heart stuttered for a beat, imagining what it must’ve been like for him, realizing everyone he’d been with died except for him. No wonder he acted the way he did. She’d probably have night terrors too.

“Here’s all the research I found when he first showed up.” Arya dumped a rubber banded folder into her lap.

“Oh, wow.”

“I’ve got a couple books, too. Let me know if you want to read them.”

“He’ll be okay, right?” Sansa asked, flipping through the first few pages. “Like, eventually, I mean?”

“Time will tell,” Arya shrugged.

* * *

Sansa spent most of the day skimming through the research Arya had provided her. She helped Catelyn the few times she’d asked, but the rest of it was on the couch, taking notes. She knew her parents assumed it was for work—that she was working remotely and that’s why she hadn’t even mentioned returning to the Vale—and she let them believe that.

In truth, she should have been working. She’d been neglecting the drafts and proofs she was supposed to sign off on, but she knew it wasn’t a big deal. When she’d called that night she arrived at Winterfell, she’s specifically asked for a lighter client load and for low profile clients. She didn’t want to be designing logos for things she would be seeing frequently—she knew it wouldn’t bring her joy the way it used to. She wanted to do simple designs, ones that didn’t take up any extra space in her brain. She wanted to be able to focus on the important stuff while still working.

Stuff like this.

“Can you take this up to Jon?” Catelyn asked, appearing with a towel, a plastic bag, and an elastic bandage.

“For what?”

“Arya said he wanted to shower. He can’t get his cast wet. And I can’t remember if there are any towels up there.”

“Oh. Uh, sure.” Sansa shuffled all the papers back into the folder and pushed it off to the side before taking the shower stuff from Catelyn. “Is he showering in the boys’ bathroom?”

“Oh, can you check if it’s clean? Rickon said it was, but his standards are different. If not, can he shower in yours and Arya’s?”

“Yeah.”

Sansa knocked on the door at the topic of the attic stairs, trying to forget how she’d raced through it without a second thought last night.

“Mom said you wanted to shower?” she greeted, setting the stack on the bottom of the bed.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Sansa had thought that he looked rough yesterday, when they’d first brought him back from the hospital, but he didn’t have those purple bruises under his eyes then, or the pale skin he had now.

“You can shower in Rickon’s bathroom downstairs. You know where it is?”

Jon nodded as he slid out of the bed. She tried not to notice how soft he looked in the t-shirt and flannel pants.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked, suddenly feeling awkward and unnecessary.

“Don’t think so.”

“Okay, well, let me know if you do.”

Sansa was half way down the stairs before she heard the quiet _uh, hey?_ She came back up to see Jon struggling to get his sling off with his left hand.

“Can… Can you…?”

“Sure,” she murmured. Sansa deftly undid his sling and eased his elbow and arm out. “You’re not supposed to get it wet, right?”

“Yeah.”

As she wrapped his cast in plastic bags and rubber banded it into place, she noticed how her fingers almost trembled. She couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t like she was nervous around boys—she hadn’t been since she’d been thirteen. Why was Jon different? Why did he make her hands shake?

She hoped he didn’t notice.

Sansa followed him down once his cast was properly waterproofed, just in case. She waited in the hall while she heard the shower start up. After a few more seconds, she was about to step away, but the door opened.

“I can’t move my elbow,” he started. Over the few weeks Sansa had known Jon, she thought they’d grown close. That maybe they were friends. Now his eyes barely met hers. “I can’t get my shirt off.”

“Oh. Right. Okay. Um…”

Sansa stepped forward and gripped the material at his hips, pulling the fabric up to his shoulders. She got his good arm and head through the holes before sliding the material gently over his cast.

“There,” she murmured, handing him the shirt back.

“Thanks.”

She couldn’t help but glance down at his chest before backing away. She expected to see muscles—he was clearly fit—but she didn’t expect to see scars. Deep, puckered scars scattered across his chest. She looked away, trying to control her features, to stop the tears she felt pooling in her eyes.

Arya had said he’d been with the rest of the squad—the only survivor. She hadn’t expected that though. She hadn’t realized what that meant.

“I’ll be in my room,” she said softly. “If you need help after.” She waved to her door, but his eyes weren’t on her at all.

* * *

While Jon was in the shower, Sansa found herself going through her old desk drawer. She had all of her letters from Robb in there somewhere, and she remembered one of them mentioning Jon.

She had buried his letters deep so that she wouldn’t accidentally come across them at any point. Eight months later, here she was, actively seeking them out.

Finally, she found the one she was looking for. She thought holding it again would make her hands shake or tears well, but instead she was scanning for the line she was looking for.

_In your next package, can you send more of those puzzle books? Jon loves them and he doesn’t really get anything sent to him._

She’d gotten that letter almost two months before the explosion. It hadn’t been his last letter to her, but it had been one of them.

Sansa had stock piled on those puzzle books after that, because her heart had broken at hearing someone was over there and not getting care packages.

She found the puzzle books under the stack of letters—she had buried them too. She knew it wasn’t much, but she thought that something was better than nothing for passing the time. It wasn’t like he could do much else with his broken elbow.

She waited until she heard the shower shut off before she moved from her bedroom and into the hall.

Jon stepped out a minute later, his arm clutched to his chest. Sansa was careful not to let her eyes glance down.

“I left the towel on the rail,” he said, voice quiet.

“Okay. I…I um, found these?” she offered, holding up the books. “I think Robb said you liked them.”

Jon glanced up at Robb’s name and she saw how his eyes softened at the sight of the puzzle books.

“You were the one who sent the packages?”

“Yeah. I mean, Mom, Dad, everyone sent their own. But I sent the ones with the puzzle books. I have a huge stack of them because…” she trailed off, the memory of his scars still very fresh in her mind. “Robb had asked me to send more, in one of his last letters. He said you liked them.” She hadn’t planned on telling him that, but it slipped out anyway.

“I do, thank you.”

Sansa watched as his good arm, which had been holding his clothes in front of his chest, reached out and took the book at the top of the stack.

“I’ll be downstairs, if you need anything,” she said softly. She wanted to give more, but she doubted that he would accept anything more, based on what Arya had said about him.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be longer and happier, I promise.


	7. Jon

Jon was angry at himself. He had been doing so well. He had been functioning, working. He had joined the Starks for another dinner up at the house and it had not ended in disaster. He even had what he thought was a friendship growing with Sansa. They had been spending more and more time together. He had been enjoying himself.

She made him feel normal. More like he had been before shipping out. More like who he could have been had his life worked out differently.

He had been doing so well and now he could barely meet her eyes.

Now he was stuck in their attic, having to depend on them, barely even able to feed himself.

At first, he thought it wouldn’t be terrible. He could hide in the attic and read or do the puzzle books Sansa had given him. It wouldn’t be that different from waiting in the barracks, waiting for orders.

It was on his third day in the attic that he realized the biggest different. In the barracks, everyone was killing time. No one had productive things to do. They were all on the same level, all waiting for something. Now, he was the only one. He could hear the Starks rushing around below him, and heard from Arya how she and Rickon had picked up his duties fixing things. Then he felt guilty.

If he hadn’t been so stupid, so ambitious, if he hadn’t thought he was _fine_ , he would still be in the trailer and still be working, keeping his hands busy. His mind busy. Because that was the worst part—the biggest different from waiting on orders and waiting to heal—now he had stuff he was avoiding thinking about.

Like Sansa’s face when she saw his scars.

He had seen how her eyes had flared when she saw his chest. How her mouth had opened.

Arya had been the first non-medical person to see them. Her reaction had given him hope. He had thought that maybe he was making a bigger deal out of them than they actually were. Maybe they weren’t that bad. Maybe, someday, someone could look past them enough to love him.

Now he realized how stupid that was. They were just as hideous as he thought they were. Sansa’s face had clearly showed him that.

Three days later, he struggled to get the image out of his mind. He tried to fill his time and brain with the puzzle books, but sitting alone in the attic all day and all night was too much for him.

He had spent too much time with the Starks, and with his brothers before that, to go back to spending all his time alone.

* * *

On the fourth morning since his accident, Jon decided he couldn’t stand the attic anymore. He needed to move, to interact for more than a handful of minutes when someone was bringing him food. He craved human contact in a way he hadn’t since he’d gotten back.

“Jon! I was just bringing breakfast up to you,” Catelyn said as he came into the kitchen.

“Oh, thanks,” he mumbled. “I thought I’d eat down here, if that’s okay?”

“Of course.”

“I was also wondering if there was anything I could help out with? I know I’m kind of limited…” he trailed off, glancing at his sling.

“Thank you for the offer, but you just need to focus on getting better,” she said, passing him a bowl of oatmeal. “Sansa’s around though, if you get bored.”

“Right.”

“I’ve gotta get going, but you’re welcome to anything you need. You know that, right?” Jon nodded, though no, he hadn’t known that. He couldn’t imagine himself just opening their fridge and taking anything out of it though. She smiled at him and Jon immediately saw where both Robb and Sansa got their soft eyes and kind smiles.

“Thanks,” he whispered, thought he wasn’t sure what exactly he was thanking her for. Her hand landed on his good shoulder as he passed and he nearly closed his eyes at the tenderness.

Maybe this was what Dr. Tarth had meant when she talked about his support system. Maybe this was what he had been missing living in the trailer. What he had felt with Catelyn, and with Arya. Why he had started to look forward to his time with Sansa. Maybe this was what he had been missing—what he had thought he’d found with his brothers.

* * *

Jon was sitting at the kitchen table with a puzzle book when Sansa came in with a basket full of laundry. It was the first time he had seen her since she’d helped him shower that first day. Since she saw his scars. He was braced to see the disgust and horror on her face, but she looked the same as she always did.

“I’m throwing in a load—got anything that needs to be washed?” she asked. “I can run up and grab it.”

“I can do my own laundry,” he retorted. He could tell by how she winced it came out harsher than he intended. He had just meant that he wasn’t an invalid. “Sorry,” he stammered as she continued to stare at him.

“It’s okay.”

Jon watched her pass into the laundry room, and the shame and embarrassment he felt twisted in his stomach. He didn’t want to push her away. He just didn’t know how to act around her, now that she’d seen his scars.

Jon tapped his pen against the table, trying to let out the nervous energy he felt building. He didn’t know how he’d survive six weeks like this. He hadn’t realized how used to his routine he’d gotten. How lost he felt without it.

He was still tapping the pen and staring out the window when Sansa came back through.

“I’m heading into town. Do you need anything?” she asked.

Glancing at her, Jon felt a bit of that energy leak out, soften. He couldn’t believe she was offering an olive branch like that after he just snapped at her. She was far too understanding. The Starks all were. It would ruin him for when he inevitably left.

“N—” he started, but the idea of being trapped in the house, in the attic, made him jittery again. “Actually, do you mind if I… come with?” He focused on the pen instead of her face. He didn’t want to watch how she would scramble for an excuse for why he shouldn’t. Why she wouldn’t want to spend more time with him.

“Yeah, sure,” she shrugged.

Her response sent Jon’s heart stuttering in his chest, as if she agreed to something far more than letting him tag along as she ran errands.

“I gotta grab my purse, but I’ll meet you out by the truck?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She smiled at him before she left to run upstairs, and Jon tried not to take it personally.

Picking up the glass he’d been drinking from, he brought it over to the sink. He’d intended to put it in the dishwasher, but he realized he didn’t know if it was clean or dirty. He supposed he could have waited for Sansa to reappear, but he panicked and set it in the sink instead. As he did, something between the faucet and the window caught his eye.

It was a diamond ring. He thought it looked like an engagement ring.

He assumed that it must’ve been Catelyn’s—that she’d taken it off while doing dishes that morning and forgot about it. Trying to be helpful, Jon moved it away from the sink, making a mental note to tell Catelyn about it later.

Outside, Jon squinted against the light. He hadn’t been outside since he’d broken his elbow. He had to fight the urge to run back into the safety and the shadows of the house. He instead focused on the slight cover the truck could offer.

When he got in, the sight of Sansa in aviators and a tank top, with one hand on the wheel and one on the gearshift, struck him. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was about the image, but it knocked him breathless.

“Let me know if there’s anything you want to do, okay?”

“Yeah,” he almost whispered, tearing his eyes away. She probably already thought he was nuts. He didn’t need creepy too.

On the way into town, Jon enjoyed the way Sansa drove with the radio playing quietly in the background, and the way she didn’t try to fill the air with mindless chatter. And the way she still hadn’t asked if he was okay.

Ever since he got out, it seemed like he heard that question from every person he saw. Some days he understood and appreciated it. Other days he found it irritating and embarrassing. Some nights he heard it in his sleep.

He liked that she didn’t ask. He didn’t care what she assumed the answer was. It was the fact he didn’t have to say _I’m fine._

They pulled up in front of the post office that began the strip of shops that was the town.

“You don’t mind walking, do you?” she asked, turning the ignition off. He shook his head. He’d barely moved since Arya had put him in the attic and he knew walking a little would be good for him.

“I thought your mom was doing the grocery shopping.”

“She is. I’m doing research for work.”

She led him into the small general store as if her comment made complete sense. Jon knew he wasn’t very experienced in the wide world of jobs—he’d enlisted right out of high school—but he couldn’t imagine what type of job she had that had allowed her to stay in Winterfell for this long and also required her to do research in a grocery store.

“W-what do you do?”

“Graphic design.”

“Graphic design? So, you draw…?”

“Kinda. I do logos, menus, pamphlets, stuff like that.”

“Have you done anything I’d know?”

“The beer you drink.”

“My beer? You designed that?”

“Just the bottle art. I didn’t do the six-pack box or anything big. And it’s really not popular outside of Winterfell. I’m pretty sure they only stock it so much here is because the owner is friends with my parents and knew I worked on it.”

“So, what are you working on now?”

“This soy milk thing.”

Jon watched, interested, as she snapped pictures of a bunch of soy milk logos. He followed her around the store as studied other logos, pointing out things she’d worked on, or things her company had done. She took all the focus off him and Jon felt more at ease with himself than he had since the night before his accident.

By the time they went to the third store, Jon found that he was enjoying himself. He barely felt the sling cradling his elbow or the weight of his past. It was like being in the trailer with her—all those late nights they spent drinking beer and talking. It felt the same as that.

Her seeing his scars didn’t seem to change anything.

* * *

They were headed back toward the car when Sansa suddenly gasped. Jon turned around wildly, thinking something must’ve been wrong, and found her standing in front of the animal shelter.

“Look at the puppy!” she cried, pointing to the flyer. “Do you mind if we go in?”

“No, we can go.”

Sansa led him into the shelter and beelined straight for the playpen full of puppies at the back. A sign caught Jon’s eye and stopped him from following her.

It was for service dogs for veterans, but instead of showing pictures of people with physical disabilities, it specifically mentioned support for PTSD.

Back in his first few months at the VA, when his hand was at its worst, Dr. Tarth had suggested that maybe he look into applying for a service dog, but by the time he got around to looking into it, his hand was manageable and he didn’t qualify based on a physical disability. Jon hadn’t considered that there were other ways to qualify.

But according to this, there were service dogs that helped with PTSD, flashbacks, insomnia, and anxiety.

He didn’t realize that there were supports for that. He thought it was just something he’d have to deal with.

“Did you see something?” Sansa asked, reappearing at his shoulder.

Had he seen this earlier in the afternoon, he might have shrugged it off or tried to hide it, but he was feeling comfortable and almost confident—the closest he’d felt to confident in a long time, even though he was still probably miles away from actually being self-assured.

He let Sansa read the sign over his shoulder.

“I didn’t know you could get service dogs for anything other than physical disabilities,” he said quietly.

“Do you want to see if they have more information?”

“I…” _I’m fine_ was what he started to say, but he hadn’t said it at all today. And he kind of wanted to keep it that way. Plus, doing a little research wouldn’t hurt anyone. He doubted would appreciate him suddenly coming back with a dog, but he could look into it at least. “Sure. Yeah.”

Five minutes later, Jon left with a folder full of information on service dogs, applications, up coming training classes, and a list of dogs that had the appropriate temperament. It was more information than Jon really wanted to sift through, but he supposed they had to be thorough.

* * *

Jon spent most of the next two days reading all the information from the folder. Initially, he picked it up because the previous day, running errands with Sansa, had drained him of the energy spurt he’d had. Being out and about, around people, for several hours was far more than he’d done in months. He spent the second morning reading it because he was actually interested.

He guessed that if he had actually done all the research about getting a service dog back when Dr. Tarth had suggested it, he would’ve known all this. He would’ve realized that he probably could qualify based on emotional and mental needs instead of physical.

He wondered if he’d been closer healthy—to normal—if he’d actually done the research.

* * *

“Hey,” Sansa said, leaning against the doorframe between the stairs and the attic. “Dad’s ordering pizza for dinner. Have any preferences?”

“No, whatever you guys want is fine.”

“Okay. Want me to bring you a slice when it’s here?”

“I’ll come down. I think I can handle pizza one-handed.”

“Great,” she grinned. “I’ll come grab you when it’s here then.”

* * *

Sansa coming to get him actually proved unnecessary. He had the attic window open and the Starks had such a long drive that he had fair warning of the pizza delivery guy arriving.

Thinking he’d save Sansa the trip, he started downstairs.

“So, when are you going to tell us what you’re really doing here,” he heard Arya say in a low voice.

Jon froze.

“Seven hells, I’m just here to help out,” Sansa’s voice answered.

His gut unclenched, but he didn’t move.

“What about work? And Harry?”

 _Harry? Who was Harry?_ Jon thought. He had been under the impression he knew Sansa fairly well. Thought they were friends. She would’ve told him if she had a boyfriend or something—wouldn’t she?

“I am working. Jon’s seen me working, if you don’t believe me. I’m just doing it remotely.”

“And Harry?”

“That’s over.”

“ _Wha_ —” The doorbell ringing cut off whatever Arya was about to say.

When it was clear that they weren’t going back to that conversation, Jon stepped down the last few stairs and joined everyone else in the kitchen.

They all greeted him with smiles and asked how he was doing. Everyone but Sansa. He found himself seeking a chair near her when they sat down.

Part of him wanted to ask who Harry was, what was over, but if she hadn’t brought it up in the two months she’d been there, she clearly didn’t want to talk about it. He was all too familiar with having topics he’d rather not discuss.

“How was town? Sansa said you went out with her the other afternoon?”

“It was fine. Nice to get out a bit,” he added, hesitantly, honestly.

“We went to the animal shelter.”

“Oh? What for?”

“Just to look. There was a cute puppy,” Sansa shrugged, but glanced at him.

She’d given him an opening. All he had to do was take it.

The question was, could he?

The lag in conversation hung in the air, waiting to be fulfilled. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

But then he felt something against his bare ankle. He looked down to see blue toenails putting the slightest pressure against him. It flooded him with the strangest feeling. It was something like hope or confidence.

“Actually—” the word came out before he could stop it. All eyes were on him now, but Sansa’s toes were still against his foot, and he focused on that instead of everyone’s eyes. “Actually, they had some interesting information on service dogs? For PTSD?” He felt his right hand trembling in the sling.

“Oh really?”

He couldn’t tell if it was said with politely or with real interest. He looked again to Sansa’s foot, trying to ground himself. He didn’t like being the center of attention.

“Jon brought some information home to look at,” Sansa added when it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything more.

“Oh, well, maybe we could go through it all, together?” Ned asked. Jon nodded.

A part of him wanted to run back to the attic, to hide, but the conversation quickly shifted away from him and he was grateful.

* * *

When Jon went to bed that night, he was found the idea of staying in the attic far less daunting than he had been thinking of it before. It was only two flights of stairs in the air conditioning, instead of a long walk in the summer head, for one thing. For another, the bed was far more comfortable.

And he was pretty sure he could hear Sansa’s music drifting up through the vents. At least, he was pretty sure it was her music. It was soft and romantic sounding, just a voice and a guitar. He couldn’t imagine it belonging to Arya or Rickon.

He fell asleep listening to it, still feeling the pressure of her toes on his ankle.

 


	8. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I done anything but write recently? Not really. Have I worked on anything but this fic? Absolutely not.

When Sansa went to bed that night, she tried not to think about Jon, about the grateful look he’d given her at dinner or how warm his foot was. But as soon as she pushed him from her mind, a different conversation entered. One she wanted to think about even less.

_When are you going to tell us what you’re really doing here?_

Arya’s words echoed in the emptiness.

She’d been doing so well to forget about what had forced her to run North. She’d pushed every thought of Harry, of what she’d seen, from her head every chance she got.

When she first got to Winterfell, Harry had of course called her a few times, but she’d rejected all of them. He hadn’t tried in weeks, and Sansa had nearly forgotten all about him, because she had put all her focus on Jon, so she didn’t have to focus on herself.

Now she realized what a mistake that had been.

She didn’t want to think about Jon, or that brief, gentle smile, he’d granted before he’d shuffled upstairs. But she couldn’t think about Harry, either. Even two months removed, remembering it caused a dull ache. It was nothing compared to how she’d felt about Robb, even with that pain fading, it still hurt more than Harry did.

And Sansa knew why. She knew she’d never loved Harry—not in the way she was meant to. She had thought she did, but she realized now if she truly loved him, the pain of being cheated on, of leaving him, would at least attempt to rival the pain Robb’s death caused, but it wasn’t even close.

Sansa looked down at her hand, thinking the ring might numb her, clear Harry from her mind, but to her shock, it wasn’t on her finger, nor was it on her nightstand.

She tried to think back, remembering the last time she’d seen the ring, but she couldn’t remember taking it off recently.

She scrambled up, suddenly needing to find the ring. Even if it meant nothing to her, she just needed to know where it was.

“What are you doing? You’ll wake up half the house with all that.”

Sansa jumped at Arya’s voice. She hadn’t heard her open the door, or knock.

“Looking for something,” she muttered.

“I’d gathered. I could hear you banging around in here. What’re you looking for?”

Sansa opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, she switched on some music to keep anyone else in the house from showing up.

“What’s up with you lately?” Arya asked when Sansa didn’t say anything else. She plopped onto her bed and picked up the book Sansa had been reading, flipping through it.

“Don’t lose my place.”

“Sansa, you’ve been here two months. You expect me to believe it’s just to help out? Sure, early June was busy, but we haven’t been booked full the last two weeks. Don’t you think Mom and Dad are suspicious? They know something’s up with you.”

Sansa dropped her old jewelry box back down on her dresser, and sat on the chair there.

“What do they think it is?”

“Well, they haven’t said, but I’m pretty sure they think it’s something to do with Harry. And I think they’re right. Don’t think none of us have noticed you haven’t been wearing your ring.”

Sansa looked down at her naked finger again.

“I didn’t mean to take it off. I think I lost it.”

“Catch.”

Arya tossed something small through the air and Sansa just caught it. It was her ring.

“Where’d you find it?”

“Jon did, a few days ago. By the sink.”

Sansa stared at it, remembering suddenly, the last time she’d taken it off. It had been to wash dishes over a month ago. It had been the same day Ned told her they had cleaned out her room. The same day she’d first heard Jon playing the guitar.

It had taken her over a month to realize she hadn’t been wearing it.

“I walked in on him. With another woman,” Sansa said quietly, tonelessly. She heard Arya’s affronted gasp, but she shrugged it off. “I packed a bag after she left and drove straight north.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not! He was _using_ your grief! He used Robb’s death.”

Sansa dropped the ring onto the dresser without putting it on. She hadn’t thought of it that way. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“I don’t care,” she said firmly. “I’m over it.”

“You’re over it? Really?”

Maybe she wasn’t yet, but she knew she would be.

“It’s not a pressing issue. I’ll deal with it at the end of the summer.”

“Why end of summer?”

“I told my company I’d be back in the office after Labor Day. I’ll deal with it all then.”

Sansa looked over at her sister, expecting to see rage and anger, or even disappointment for how she was dealing with it, but she saw something close to admiration instead.

“So, you’re here until then?”

“Yeah.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Sansa wondered what everyone else would say when they found out about her and Harry, but from what it sounded like, everyone already knew, or suspected. That made it easier, she thought. Plus, by telling Arya, she’d already pretty much told everybody.

“It was a good thing you did for Jon.”

“What?”

“The animal shelter. Taking him in. Bringing it up.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re good with him, you know.”

“I’m really not. I’m completely awkward. I never know what to say, or to ask if he’s okay. I… I didn’t even say anything when I saw his scars last week.”

“You saw his scars?” Arya asked, sitting up suddenly. Sansa looked at her sharply. Why did it seem like she’d suddenly stepped into uncharted territory?

“On accident, kinda. He needed help getting his shirt of the first day he was in the sling. I glanced down by accident.”

“What’d he do?”

“I dunno… got in the shower? He wouldn’t look at me.”

“Yeah, he kinda panicked when I saw them on accident, too.”

“What did you do?”

“Told him I didn’t realize that he was actually with all them. We had all thought he was on look out or something. That he wasn’t near them. Mom and Dad and everyone else still think that. I haven’t told them yet.”

“Only you and I know?”

“Yeah. And we should try to keep it that way, I think. He’s not ready for anyone else to know. And Mom’s certainly not ready to hear that yet.”

“I haven’t mentioned his scars, or anything. Should I?”

“I wouldn’t. Not unless it comes up.”

“How did he survive something like that?” she whispered, pulling her knees up to her chest.

“Dunno… Divine intervention?” There was a joking tone to her voice, but Arya’s face was serious. “You are good with him, though. He’s different with you. Not happier, but… Lighter? There’s something different.”

“You’re imagining things. He’s just as awkward and quiet with me as he is everyone else,” Sansa muttered, trying to ignore that feeling blooming in her chest.

* * *

For the next several days, Sansa found herself spending most of the day with Jon. This was not so much planned as it was that they were the only two routinely in the house. Ned and Catelyn were doing all of their normal rushing about to take care of the guests, and Arya and Rickon were doing all the odd jobs Jon couldn’t do, which left the two of them.

At first, Sansa thought it would be awkward, the way it had been the first few days when Jon spent all of his time in the attic, but he’d seemed to adjusted to being in the house, because after the evening he’d joined them for dinner, he hung around downstairs with her.

They didn’t necessarily spend all their time together, but they’d often be in the same space. When she was working on the soy milk design at the kitchen table, Jon worked in his puzzle books at the island. When she read or watched movies in the living room, he sat across the room reading, or sometimes watching with her. They didn’t often talk, unless something came up in the movie or someone came into the house, but it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was a quiet silence, a warm one.

* * *

“Are you left handed?” she asked one morning, watching him write an answer in his book. His right hand was in the sling, almost out of sight. She remembered the first evening with his cast, she’d helped him spear his food, because he was having trouble using his left hand, but he looked fairly comfortable using it now.

“I’m not.” Jon looked at her, eyebrows raised.

She leaned over, looking at the letters he had blocked in. They were shaky, but passible. Far better than she could have done with her left hand.

“When I first got out, I couldn’t write with my right. I got pretty good with my left.” He said it offhandedly, but Sansa thought it was the easiest he’d ever remarked on something from his service, or left over from his service. “I used to be close to ambidextrous, but after my hand got better, I quit using my left.”

Sansa nodded. That explained why he’d struggled the first day, but she hadn’t heard him having problems since.

“Wow. That’s impressive.”

“Thanks,” he said slowly.

She let her eyes drift back to her work, but she heard Arya’s voice in her head. _He’s different with you_ , she’d said. Sansa still didn’t think Arya was right, but she was definitely starting to see the lightness Arya had mentioned. She started to notice that maybe he wasn’t necessarily at ease, but he didn’t seem quite as full of nervous energy as he had been when she first met him.

* * *

By the end of that week, Sansa felt like she wanted to do something for Jon. Every time she’d done some small chore to help out her parents, he’d offered to help. When she unloaded the dishwasher, he took care of the silverware, when she washed dishes, he put them away. When she did laundry, he toted the folded stacks up stairs for her. He did absolutely everything he possibly could with his one good arm, and Sansa was almost exhausted for him. Whenever she did something that wasn’t work related, he was asking if he could help.

And she appreciated it, she did, but she saw the look on his face whenever Rickon or Arya mentioned the jobs they’d done that day. She knew he was helping her around the house so much to make up for the fact that he wasn’t able to be the handyman.

So, she wanted to do something for him.

“I feel like baking,” she announced, leaning across the island toward him. “Any requests?”

“I’ll eat whatever,” he shrugged.

“No preferences? Nothing you’ve got a sweet tooth for?”

Sansa remembered asking him about comfort foods when he first came back from the hospital, and he’d had a similar response. She thought everyone had a childhood dessert or food they always would go back to, but Jon didn’t seem to. She didn’t like what that implied.

He looked past her, and she wondered if she’d said something wrong.

“Snickerdoodles,” he said softly after a moment. “We used to have them on Christmas.”

“I can do that.” She let out a breath of relief. He had _something._

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Easy. I’ll go pick up the stuff this afternoon.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Sansa pushed away from the island, trying to hide just how wide she was grinning.

* * *

“I can help,” Jon said as soon as she put the bags on the counter.

“You can read me the instructions.” She passed him the tablet with the recipe.

“I can do more.”

Sansa looked up at him then, bag half unpacked. She set the container of cinnamon sugar gently on the counter.

“I know,” she whispered. “I just want to try it myself. I’ve never made them before.” This was true, at least, but she also just wanted to do something for him.

“Okay.”

She glanced up at this, thinking she might see him shut down, but he was scrolling through the recipe. She hoped that was a good sign.

“What does the oven need to be at?”

“Three-fifty.”

Sansa had thought that with him reading her the instructions, he might be more inclined to talk to her. To maybe explain why he liked snickerdoodles, other than that he’d had them at Christmas, or really anything else about his life outside of his service, but all he did was recite the text that was in front of him on the tablet.

She tried to not be upset or offended by his passive participation—she had, after all, asked that he read the instructions—but she had _hoped_.

And she had to admit, even if he was quiet, even if all he did was read the instructions and watch her, it was nice. There still wasn’t much awkwardness in the silence. It was different from the silences she and Harry had in their apartment. Those often sounded like they were filled with static, a buzzing altering her to the silence. Those she could feel. The ones with Jon she only felt when she actively was thinking about it.

She thought that maybe the silences with Harry were palpable because they were filled with unshared thoughts and words, but she knew there was no way that Jon wasn’t filled with stuff he wasn’t sharing. And that was fine, she knew why he wasn’t, but that didn’t explain the differences in the silence.

* * *

Sansa couldn’t explain the nerves running through her body as she pulled the tray of cookies from the oven. She was sure she followed the recipe right, and they were a fairly easy cookie to make, but it almost felt like she _needed_ Jon to like them.

“Careful, they’re hot.” They’d only been on the rack for a minute when Jon was already reaching for one. She saw his hesitation before lowering his hand.

“Guess I wouldn’t want to burn my good hand.” She glanced at him, not sure if she was supposed to laugh or not. “They’ll be worth the wait, though.”

“Hope so.”

She turned her back on him then, stacking the dishes and filling the sink with water. A part of her did it so he wouldn’t see the way she was surely blushing, but another part of her did it to keep her from watching his face after he ate one.

Sansa didn’t turn back around until all the dishes were submerged and she couldn’t pretend to be doing something anymore.

Two cookies were gone.

“Are they good?”

“Yeah, perfect,” he said softly. This time she didn’t bother to turn around to hide her reaction. She let him see her smile.

* * *

Sansa had gone up to her room early that night to send off a few samples to her boss, but found herself wandering downstairs once she’d finished.

She had been the only one who hadn’t had a few cookies after dinner, and now she had a craving.

To her surprise, she hadn’t been the only one.

At the island, Ned and Jon were both eating cookies with a folder between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Ghost is coming, and Sansa does talk to Jon about Harry.
> 
> I also hope to have the next chapter up on Thursday.


	9. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's up a day early.

Jon hadn’t really thought Ned had been serious about going through the folder, the application together, but when Jon had sneaked downstairs for a few more cookies, Ned had also been in the kitchen and suggested he bring it down.

He knew if Ned hadn’t suggested it, hadn’t offered to go through it together, he probably would’ve never gotten around to actually getting a dog. He would’ve let the folder sit somewhere, occasionally think he should maybe look into it, and then never do it.

The experience of sitting down with someone, with an adult, and going through important paperwork was new. He had been on his own for so long, and even before he was on his own, he had never been in a situation like that. Far too often, he was the one left to take care of the adult tasks—the bills, the rent, permission forms. He had never had help or someone looking over things with him. He had always had to rely on his own instinct or intelligence.

It was different going over it with Ned. He read through all the things Jon didn’t have the energy to comprehend or absorb. He took notes and compacted the information into something Jon didn’t feel exhausted by. He made a list of things that Jon needed to do in order to apply, such as getting a letter from Dr. Tarth, and determining which programs to look into getting the dog from, depending on what he thought he would need the most help with.

Ned also found, after doing more research that Jon hadn’t even thought of looking into, a program that helped cover the costs of getting, registering, and training the dog. 

He knew he never would’ve done this without Ned’s help. He felt drained after going through all the information with Ned, but there was a feeling of excitement too. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the idea of getting a dog or the fact that he might be more on his way to healthy and normal.

* * *

The next few days, Jon was occupied with getting all the proper documents together and the applications filled out. He spent most of his time in the attic, mostly because he wanted to spread his papers out without getting in anyone’s way, but also to give himself privacy, because he really didn’t want anyone, or maybe especially Sansa, to overhear the phone call he needed to make. Because he needed to call Dr. Tarth. He needed a letter from her stating that he qualified, and he knew she wouldn’t give that without an update on how he was doing.

He had sent her an email to set up the phone call, and her reply made him, not nervous, but a little on edge. She had mentioned how great it was to hear from him and how she had time free in a few days. She asked that he provide details of his recovery since she’d seen him last, and he knew that was the part that had freaked him out.

How could he tell her about he broke his elbow?

He thought about writing out the main points so as not to panic and forget anything, but he also didn’t like the idea of seeing it all written out. Plus, what if he left it lying around and someone saw? He didn’t know how he’d handle that.

When he saw Dr. Tarth’s name come up on his phone, his nerves returned, but he thought of the blue toenails on his foot, and swallowed and answered.

It was the thought of the feeling of Sansa’s foot against his that propelled him through the conversation. He told Dr. Tarth about how he struggled the first month, but how he was working on engaging more with the family. He explained about the attack he had, and how he pushed himself too far after. He paused, taking a deep breath, before launching into the problem with his elbow moving into the attic. He told her about how he was spending more time with the Starks, in shared spaces, instead of secluding himself in the attic or trailer.

But he also told her about the nightmares he still had, where he woke up drenched in sweat and quaking. He told her about how he was drained after spending more than a few hours actively engaging with people, but how he often felt lonely and isolated when he was in the attic. How he wanted to be normal and do things like everyone else, but he was nervous about something setting off an attack. Sun hitting him wrong had left him incapacitated and loud noises and crowds made him nervous. He explained about how when he went to town with Sansa last week, she’d gasped about the puppy, but his first thought went to getting her safe. He had immediately started looking for a target, not the puppy in the window.

Dr. Tarth seemed to think that he was making improvements but agreed that having a service dog would definitely help with the situations he described, especially the night terrors. That seemed to be what she was most concerned with.

He could hear her writing in the background, and he could almost see that tree from her office. He wondered if it would be inappropriate to ask if it was actually real.

“And you mentioned Sansa? Who is that?” she asked before he got a chance to mention the plant.

“Sansa?” He hadn’t realized he’d said her name. He’d just been saying _the Starks_. “She’s one of the daughters,” he said after a beat. He didn’t know how to explain his relationship to her.

When they met, he’d only thought of her, as any of them, in relation to Robb—Robb’s parents, Robb’s siblings, Robb’s sister—but now she was just Sansa. She was Sansa. He didn’t know how to explain it.

“You seem close to her?”

Jon shrugged before remembering that she couldn’t see her.

“We’re friends, I guess.” He didn’t want to say they spent a lot of time together. He didn’t know how to say that without implying something else. He hadn’t even realized either, until that moment, that Sansa was probably the one he spent the most time with. She knew the most about him, and he knew maybe more about Arya, but he suspected that had more to do with their personalities than anything else.  

He thought about adding that he and Sansa would share stories about Robb and stay up late talking, but he didn’t know how to explain that either. How to explain it didn’t hurt to talk with her about Robb. Or even how she saw his scars and didn’t seem to treat him differently.

“She’s the person I feel most comfortable with here,” he settled on, because it was true. He liked Arya and Rickon, but he didn’t feel the same level of ease with them. With Rickon he supposed because he was younger, but with Arya he thought it might be her energy. She had much more of it than Sansa. Sansa was calmer.

“That’s good. I’m glad that you’re making progress and healing. I’ll send you the information you need, and a few programs up there that I think would work well. I know you left the VA discouraged Jon, but you shouldn’t be. You are doing good.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, unsure of what to say.

Jon gave her a little more information about the programs he and Ned looked at and got her opinion on the ones he should look into more. 

“And you’ll be in contact if you need anything else? Or have another attack like the one you mentioned?”

“Yeah, yeah, I will.”

 _I hope I won’t have to though. That’s the point of the dog, isn’t it?_ he thought, but he didn’t say that. He thought that would keep them on the phone much longer.

“Good. Expect to see an email from me in the next few days.”

* * *

When Jon went downstairs a little while later, he was surprised to see Sansa pacing around the kitchen, on the phone.

“Of course, I saw your text. I wouldn’t’ve answered if I hadn’t,” she snapped.

Jon had never heard her sound like that. He stopped between the kitchen and the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t notice him before he could retreat back upstairs.

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. I’m done.”

He had his foot on the stairs when he heard the phone slam onto the counter. He’d gone up two more stairs when he heard what he was sure was a sob. Every instinct told him to run, to give her privacy, but he thought of her foot again, and he stepped back down the stairs.

“Sansa?” he asked softly, padding quietly into the kitchen.

Jon saw how her head snapped up and her hands flew to cover her face.

“Jon, hi,” she whispered, turning her back to him.

“Are… are you okay?” As soon as he said the words, he felt stupid. She obviously wasn’t.

When she didn’t respond, he glanced down at the counter, wondering if he should just leave her in peace, but a ring caught his eye. It was the same one he had seen near the sink.

Jon almost heard the pieces click into place in his brain.

 _Oh_ , he thought, feeling even more stupid.

He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know how. It wasn’t like he could walk over and put his foot against hers, the way she had for him. And he couldn’t rightly walk over and hug her. What was he supposed to do?

He stood there, feeling helpless, until he remembered something Robb had said once.

Jon didn’t know why he remembered it, or how it came to his mind, but he distinctly remembered Robb giving advice to someone else in the squad, saying whenever a girl’s upset, that they should make them a cup of tea. He said it worked all the time for his mom and sisters.

Thankful that he’d watched enough people make tea in that kitchen, he immediately pulled down a mug and started to heat the water.

He didn’t say anything as he waited, and she stayed at the counter, still with her back to him.

“Here,” he offered faintly, putting the mug on the counter in front of her.

To his utter alarm, she took one look at the mug, sobbed harder, and threw her arms around his shoulders. Jon stiffened at her touch, but slowly put his hand on her back. She _clung_ to him, and he couldn’t help but to rub his hand in a small circle.

He could feel her body shaking, her tears dropping onto his neck. It was more pressure on his shoulder and elbow than he’d had since breaking it, but he didn’t mind. He just held her with his good arm and hoped it was enough.

Jon wasn’t sure how long they had embraced, but he knew it was Sansa who let go first.

“Sorry,” she said shakily, stepping back. “It’s just… Robb used to make me tea when I was upset. It just… shocked me.”

“I’m sorry—I-I didn’t think…” He had just been trying to do something nice. He hadn’t thought of what it might mean to her, that he did the same thing Robb used to. “Robb told me once whenever his sisters were upset, he’d make tea… and I didn’t know what to do…”

“No, it’s okay. I just… I had been wishing he was here, and for a second, I almost thought he was,” she whispered, picking up the mug.

“Because of Harry?”

“How’d you know?”

“I heard you and Arya talking about it last week. And I saw the ring on the counter.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask…what happened?”

“He cheated on me.”

Jon knew whatever she was going to say was going to be bad, but he didn’t expect that. Nor did he expect the emotions that flooded him: murderous rage and the urge to protect her.

“Do you want me to kick his ass?”

“After that phone call, maybe. He was trying to blame me for what happened. Oh, and he wanted the ring back. Apparently, it’s a family heirloom.”

“How could he blame you for him cheating?”

“Said it was because I worked too much. I’d come home after he was asleep and leave before he woke up. I mean, we weren’t having sex at all, I guess. We barely made eye contact some days.”

“That’s no excuse,” he muttered. “That just makes him worse.”

“You sound like Arya. She was outraged. Said something about using my grief against me.”

Jon hadn’t even thought of that. He felt the need to kill him all over again.

“I was stupid to answer the phone. I normally send him to voicemail, but he hadn’t called in a few weeks, and he’d texted that it was important, so I answered… I should’ve known better.”

He found himself wanting to reach out for her, but he didn’t. She held her mug in both hands and he didn’t know how to approach her without making it awkward. He shoved his good hand into his pocket.

“It’s not your fault he’s a dick.”

To his surprise, she laughed at that.

“Thanks, Jon. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

He turned away from her then, thinking she was done with him, but her voice stopped him from leaving the kitchen.

“How’s the application for the dog going? I saw you and Dad working on it the other night.”

Jon sat at the island, across from her, and explained all the steps it took to apply. He almost told her about his phone call with Dr. Tarth, since she shared about her ex, but something stopped him. She was looking at him like he was normal—treating him like he was normal. He didn’t need to remind her that he wasn’t.

* * *

Jon suspected that Dr. Tarth had pulled some strings or something, because all his paperwork to qualify had been approved far more quickly than he had expected. He thought it would take closer to a month, not a week.

He had everything he needed, and even narrowed down what program he wanted to get the dog from: the one that had vets train them specifically to work with other vets.

Now all he had to do was go and pick out a dog.

Ned suggested going on a Friday afternoon, as the program was a bit of a drive from Winterfell, and they didn’t have anyone new checking in until Sunday evening. Jon thought it seemed fast—he had been okay with waiting, but he knew the sooner he got the dog, the sooner he’d be almost normal.

* * *

Jon was halfway to the truck when he realized he wanted someone with him, besides Ned.

If it weren’t for Sansa, the idea of getting a service dog would have never crossed his mind. If it weren’t for Sansa, he never would’ve spoken up and told them about the idea. He thought he might need her with him.

So, he ran back into the house, looking for her.

He had been so sure that she had to come with him, but when she wasn’t anywhere on the main floor, he suddenly grew hesitant. He went up the stairs more slowly than he had downstairs, stopping in front of her closed door. He could hear music coming through, but the beating of his heart was louder.

Jon had no idea what he was doing when he knocked.

He saw the surprise on her face as soon as she opened the door.

“Hi.”

“Hey, I’m going up to that center that trains the dogs with your dad and…” He paused. He sounded out of breath, panicky. He needed to control his breathing. “And I was wondering if you wanted to come help me pick out a dog?” He fixed his gaze on her hand on her doorknob. Her finger nails matched the blue of her toenails he’d seen.

“Yeah, of course.”

He expected her to say _give me five minutes,_ or _when are you leaving?_ He did not expect her to switch her music off, grab her phone, and close the door behind her, declaring herself ready.

That meant they had to walk downstairs and to the truck together, and suddenly this felt like more than her helping him pick out a dog.

Jon pushed that thought from his mind as soon as it occurred to him, guilt and anger twisting inside him.

Walking down stairs next to her made him feel like this was _more_? Was he that deprived of human contact and companionship that _that_ made him want to brush his hand against hers?

Was that why Dr. Tarth had asked about who Sansa was? Could she tell he was latching on to her?

When they got to the truck, Sansa hopped in the backseat and Jon found that when he wasn’t looking at her, it was easier to focus.

He tried to tell himself that once he had the dog, it would be fine. The dog would fill the space that Sansa was starting to take up.

* * *

Jon was hyperaware of the quiet in the truck as they drove. He had been getting used to the quiet— _had_ gotten used to it with Sansa—but it was different with another person there. For some reason, it filled him with nerves. He could almost feel how the blood rushed a little too quickly through his veins, how his heart beat a little too loudly in his chest. When he first came north, he used to listen specifically to the sound of his heartbeat, feel it pound against his ribs. It had reassured him that he was alive. Now he was all too aware of that and he wished it would just _calm down._

He was just glad she was sitting behind him and he couldn’t see her. He couldn’t imagine how fast his heart would be beating then.

* * *

When they pulled up in front of the center, it was much smaller than Jon had thought it would be. He was expecting a farm or a ranch—something where the dogs had space. Not an office building.

“Are you sure this is the right address?” Sansa asked, leaning forward. She voiced what he had been thinking.

“This is what Dr. Tarth sent,” Ned answering, pointing to the GPS. Jon wished he hadn’t mentioned Dr. Tarth. He didn’t want Sansa asking who that was.

“Maybe it’s around back?”

“Could be.”

They got out of the truck slowly. Jon was pulling his paperwork from his folder so that he had it ready to just hand over.

“Do you have that pamphlet for this place?” Sansa asked, popping up beside him. He handed it to her quietly. “No, this is it. See the logo?” She pointed to the little block lettering in the bottom center of the first page and then to an equally hidden sign he hadn’t noticed. He thought she might hand it back then, thinking that was all that could have interested her, but she continued to study it as they made their way up the front walk.

Inside wasn’t much more reassuring than the outside, Jon thought. He still wasn’t sure where all the dogs were.

Jon’s eyes were immediately drawn to the man sitting behind the counter. He was not who he was expecting to see. He thought for sure there would be a bubbly woman like there had been at the animal shelter. Not a burly man who reminded him a little of Tormund. That, more than anything else, told him he was in the right place.

He immediately slid all of his paperwork across the counter before the man could ask for it.

“Well, this looks to be all in order,” he said, flipping through it quickly. “Let me go get Harwin and he’ll show you to the back.”

“They keep the dogs here?” Sansa whispered as soon as he was gone. Jon shrugged with his good shoulder. “You’d think they’d have more of an identity,” she added, looking around. His eyes followed hers, trying to see what she saw. He guessed it was pretty stark and barren. If he hadn’t known what this place was and wandered in, he’d guess it was some sort of business. There were no posters, dog toys, pictures. There was a plant, but that was it.

“All right, if you head through that door, Harwin will show you the dogs.”

Jon nodded, but looked quickly to Sansa. She was still studying the pamphlet he’d handed her in the parking lot.

“Can… Can they come with me?” he asked, suddenly nervous. He didn’t want to go back there alone.

“’Course.”

“Actually, I’ll stay here if you don’t mind,” Ned said. “I have a few questions yet.”

Jon saw Sansa glance at her father, but she joined him without question.

They followed him through a narrow hallway to a larger room that opened into a courtyard. There were dogs everywhere. He saw a bunch running around outside with a few people, there were a few sleeping in beds in a corner of the room, and there were a few running straight for them.

“Sorry, these ones are new. The one’s you’ll want are in the courtyard. Looks like…” he trailed off, looking down at the papers Jon realized he had in his hands. He hadn’t noticed that before. He didn’t know if he would have asked Sansa back if he knew she might hear what it said on there. “Ah, yep. Okay. Looks like you’ll want to take a look at these.”

 He motioned for them to join him at the window. Jon tried to keep track of the dogs running, but they all kind of blurred together as they ran their loop.

“There’s the twins—the two golden retrievers. The Collies—they’re popular. Good if you freeze up in public, ‘cause they’re herding dogs. Shepherds are always good too. Especially if you’re hyperaware at night. Then we’ve got the one husky. They’re pretty rare to see as service dogs because they’re hard to train, but we’ve pretty much had him from birth, so he’s pretty good. Lot of upkeep with the coat, but you’d get that with a Shepherd too—actually, they’re worse.”

Jon nodded dimly. It was a lot of information and the only dogs he knew with one hundred percent confidence were the husky and the Shepherds.

“Looks like they’re finishing up,” Harwin said suddenly, sliding open the door. Hesitantly, Jon followed Sansa into the courtyard, standing a half step behind her. He didn’t want the dogs to rush at him, but then he realized they would rush at Sansa instead. He took a step forward, glancing at her, but she was grinning at the dogs and didn’t notice.

To his surprise, the dogs didn’t charge them. Instead, they formed a line and sat patiently. It reminded Jon of the military.

“So like I said, I think you’d be good with…” Harwin repeated the breeds he mentioned and pointed to each one as he said it, so Jon actually knew what he was talking about this time. “Take a walk down, see if you respond to any.”

Jon took a few steps, but Sansa hadn’t moved. She was just watching him.

In that moment, Jon wished they were together. He wished she was there as his girlfriend. Then he could reach out his hand and pull her along with him. Or maybe not even that. He wished she was his sister, his family, or even just actually a friend. He wished she was _more._ Someone he could clearly identify his relationship with. Someone he could ask to walk with him.

But she wasn’t.

So, he couldn’t.

He shouldn’t even wish it.

Slowly, Jon walked down the aisle, trying to look at the dogs and see if he felt anything, but his brain was too focused on Sansa, on pushing her out, on chiding himself. He could barely see the dogs in front of him. He could barely remember what he was supposed to be doing.

Jon paused, trying to reorient himself. Maybe asking her along had been a bad idea.

He had to stop. He had to breathe. He had to clear his mind.

He needed to focus on something else.

Jon found himself suddenly breathing deeply, slowly, calmly.

It took him a second to realize he was matching his breath to someone else’s.

He looked down to see his hand on the side of the white husky, who must’ve moved to stand beside him. His inhales and exhales matched the dog’s.

“Good dog,” he whispered, patting the dog’s side.

“Think you found your match,” Harwin grinned, joining him. Sansa stood a few steps behind. “This is Ghost. He’s very quiet, but, as you can see, very smart.”

“Good boy, Ghost,” Jon whispered, moving his hand so he was scratching the dog’s ears.

* * *

Harwin drew up the paperwork and brought them back out front for him to sign everything. He noticed that Ned was in what appeared to be a deep conversation with the man at the front counter, which seemed to stop once Harwin put the papers on the counter.

It was quiet as he signed everything, but maybe it was Ghost’s audible breathing that made the silence bearable. He didn’t notice it as much—or, rather, he did notice it, but his brain didn’t latch onto it the way it normally would have.

On the ride back, Jon sat with Ghost in the backseat. He could hear Ned and Sansa talking about something—he thought it sounded like logo designs—but he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention. Ghost had laid his head across Jon’s lap and the pressure of it, combined with the draining events and the long car ride, made him sleepy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going on vacation for the weekend, and I only have the first bit of the next chapter written, so I don't anticipate having the next one up until late next week at the earliest.
> 
> Hopefully the fact that this chapter is almost twice as long as the last few makes up for it.


	10. Sansa

Sansa had thought that picking out a dog would be easy for Jon. She thought it would be deciding which one was cutest. She had no idea that it had far more to do with personality and what the dog was trained to do.

She also wasn’t sure why he had invited her, or why he asked her to go to the back with him. All she did was stand awkwardly to the side.

When Harwin told him to walk down the aisle and see if he connected with any of them, she wasn’t sure if she was meant to go with or not. He didn’t say anything, so she stayed by Harwin.

She thought for sure that Jon would lean over and pet all the dogs, try playing with them or something, but he just walked slowly past each dog until he stalled.

At first, she thought it was because he had picked his dog, but then she noticed that he wasn’t actually looking at any of them. He was staring off to the other side of the courtyard.

Something felt off—wrong. She took a half step closer and realized that she could see clearly how his chest rose and fell. He was breathing fast, like he had during that night terror she’d witnessed.

He was panicking—he must’ve been. She thought that Harwin, or any of the other men with them, must have seen it too, but no one did anything.

She couldn’t just stand there and let him panic. Not when he specifically asked her along.

Sansa took another step forward and opened her mouth, his name already on her lips, when a hand caught her arm. She glanced over and saw Harwin shaking his head. She took a breath to argue when he pointed at something.

The white husky was walking over to Jon, nudging his hand until it was on his side.

It wasn’t until Jon looked down and smiled at the dog that Sansa let herself breathe.

* * *

On the ride home, Sansa asked Ned what he had been talking about with the man at the reception desk. She thought he might be getting more information about how people worked with the dogs or maybe asking how to better help Jon continue transitioning. What he said surprised her.

“Their building.”

“What?”

“I was asking why they worked in an office building. It seemed like it would make it harder.”

“I thought that too,” she admitted, and explained what the courtyard looked like. She also explained how she felt about their logo, and the pamphlet as a whole. It was underwhelming, she thought, and didn’t accurately convey what they were. She was tempted to check out their website, but she doubted it would be much better.

For a program that did such great work, it didn’t present itself that way.

She wondered what Jon had thought of it, but when she glanced into the back seat, she saw that his eyes were closed. She found herself smiling as she turned back around.

* * *

When they got back, Sansa allowed Ned and Jon go ahead with Ghost. She had felt unnecessary at the center, and she wanted to get rid of that feeling. Needing to be productive, she went around back, hoping there was something in one of the cabins she could take care of.

She knew there were people checking in on Sunday, so she thought she would check to make sure there were clean sheets in all the cabins.

She hadn’t been in any of the cabins in the past year. All the help she’d been doing had been in the house—picking up the household chores that sometimes got put on the backburner, or doing the laundry that Arya or Catelyn had brought in. She hadn’t actually stepped foot in the cabins.

It was the quilts that made her catch her breath. She’d forgotten about them.

They had been Robb’s idea, back when her parents decided to quit their jobs and start their own business. Catelyn had made them all a series of quilts throughout their childhood. They each had their baby quilts that she had made while pregnant with them. They had their quilts they had gotten when they each turned thirteen, and their quilts they had gotten when they each graduated high school. Catelyn said they’d each get another one when they got married.

Robb had suggested that she make different quilts for each of the beds in the cabins. It had been his idea to personalize the cabins with the homemade quilts.

She’d nearly forgotten about them.

She had her one from her thirteenth birthday on her bed, but it had been there so long she rarely thought about it. Her one from graduation was still in Riverrun.

Sansa had come to take them for granted, but Robb had always known they were special. She remembered he’d once said that he wanted to take his with him, and she knew Catelyn eventually made him a different once and sent it in a care package. She wondered if it had been returned with his other belongings. She wondered if the box of his things they’d gotten was just sitting in his room.

She still hadn’t seen the door open. She still wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

She supposed she could ask Jon, but she didn’t really want to know the answer.

Instead of collecting the sheets like she intended, she found herself collapsing into the chair right by the door.

Between her focus on Jon and trying to forget about Harry, she hadn’t felt that grief that she thought had been eating her alive at the start of summer. But she felt it now.

She felt it in the knowledge that Robb would never get another quilt for when he got married. That they would all get more quilts and Robb wouldn’t. It had been Robb’s idea to make quilts for each of the cabins, and he would never see how much the guests loved them.

The quilts had meant everything to Robb. She knew it was the only way he admitted how much he missed being home.

Robb had been stoic—he’d been there for her whenever she needed him, but he rarely broke down the way she did. When he came home for leave, he acted like he was fine—he would joke around and laugh like he did when they were in high school. The only clue she had to him not being fine had been the few nightmares she remembered him having and him no longer playing the guitar, but she had never linked the two. She thought he just grew out of the guitar and the trailer. She had always thought he was so strong, so unaffected, but that hadn’t been the truth. That had been what he wanted her to see.

Back then, Sansa never considered how irritable he was, or how he would disappear for hours at a time. How he would snap at her when she would check in on him.

She’d forgotten or pushed all of that out. She had always assumed he had been fine. It was only through Jon that she realized that he hadn’t been.

That itself left her breathless. She had known that Jon knew another side of Robb, one she would never know, but she never thought that she had _missed_ all the signs. That she didn’t know him as well as she thought she did. That she hadn’t been as good as a sister as she thought she was.

* * *

That night Sansa found she couldn’t sleep. Her mind was running over every sign she missed that Robb hadn’t been okay. She was thinking of everything she could have done to help him. Of every place she failed.

She tossed and turned until she finally got out of bed. She had too much energy and had to get out of her head.

In the hall, Sansa paced, trying to think of something that would occupy her thoughts and her hands. She considered waking up Arya, but she knew how well that would go. A part of her was tempted to open that door she’d been avoiding for months, but she knew that would do nothing to clear her head.

She opened the linen closet at the end of the hall, thinking maybe she would find laundry, or knitting needles, or literally anything, but before she could even look really, another door opened.

Sansa fully expected it to be Arya yelling at her for being loud, but it was the attic door that opened.

The sight of Ghost surprised her—she’d almost forgotten about him. She’d gone right to her room after she’d gotten back from the cabins and hadn’t actually seen how large the dog was in the house.

She quietly closed the door so that she wouldn’t startle Jon, but Ghost had seemed to already alerted him somehow, because when he came into the hall, his eyes met hers.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hey. I didn’t wake you, did I?” His voice was quiet but she thought she heard a rough edge to it.

“No, no, I couldn’t sleep. I was looking for something to do.”

“I was going to let Ghost out, and get some water.”

“I’ll come down with you.”

Sansa let him and Ghost led her down to the kitchen. Even in the dim glow from the nightlight on the landing, Sansa could tell his hair was damp. She’d seen it like that two other times. The first had been his first night in the attic. The second had been a few days ago, when his screams had woken her up. She had stuffed a pillow under his side so that he didn’t roll onto his elbow instead of crawling in beside him. She still spent the night on the futon, just in case.

She had hoped that Ghost would stop the nightmares, but it was probably too early for that. He’d only had the dog for a few hours.

She also supposed that the fact he was up and getting water was better than the other times she’d seen him.

“Could you not sleep either?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

“Not really.”

Sansa watched as he filled a glass with water before going to the backdoor and hooking Ghost up to a leash that they must’ve put out there. She got a glass for herself and joined him on the patio.

“Robb had nightmares, too.” She hadn’t planned on saying it, but Robb had just been so heavily on her mind, and she had seen his damp hair. She wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.

She saw the way Jon’s head snapped around towards her.

“Sorry, I just… assumed that’s why you were up.”

“I didn’t know that,” he whispered.

“He didn’t know that we knew. We’d hear him, but there wasn’t much we could do to comfort him.”

“There’s not much you can do.”

“I know. I did the research.”

“You…you what?”

Sansa choked on her water. She hadn’t meant to say that either.

“I-I did research on PTSD. Well, actually Arya did, but I read some of it.”

“Oh.”

Sansa let the conversation die there. She didn’t know what might slip out next if she allowed her mouth to open. Instead, she crossed her arms, pulling them tight to herself. She glanced over to see that Jon was sitting similarly: tight and crossed and closed off.

She searched for something safe to say. Something neutral that didn’t relate to Robb or why either of them were in Winterfell. She almost asked something about Ghost, but she thought that was too close.

She was still trying to find something to say when she felt something settle awkwardly across her shoulders.

“Sorry. You looked cold,” Jon said, looking uncomfortable, as she straightened the blanket on her back.

“Thanks.”

“I… I missed this.”

Sansa almost thought she imagined it. His voice had been quieter, softer than a whisper. It was half a sigh, almost a breath, barely actual words. She looked over to him, thinking that maybe he would be looking back at her, thinking that something in his face would give away whether or not she imagined it, but he was staring hard at something off in the distance.

“Missed…?” Her voice was almost as low as his had been.

“When we’d stay up talking, out in the trailer. It was…” He trailed off and Sansa held her breath, waiting for the end of the sentence. “I like this,” he said instead.

“Me too.”

With Jon, her thoughts about Robb didn’t send her into a spiral. She wasn’t thinking about how many signs she missed, or how hard he tried to hide it all. She thought instead about Jon, about everything she wasn’t missing, and how Robb would be proud of her for how she was trying to help. Even if Robb hid how much he hurt, he made damn sure no one else did.

“You could always come down, when you feel like talking, you know. My door’s always open.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

Even though Sansa spent much of her time during the day with Jon, with them both mostly being in the house, they rarely spoke to each other. When they did, it was always out of necessity, or because someone else had come in and started a conversation. They didn’t really talk with each other just to talk.

Not until Jon knocked on her ajar door with Ghost at his side.

It wasn’t an every night thing, but he came down to her room about as often as she would go out to the trailer while he was still out there.

She would curl up with her quilt on her bed, and Jon would sit on her window seat with Ghost coiled at his feet. She noticed that Jon always left the door cracked open, even when if it was fairly late and everyone else was asleep. She had thought to ask him about it once, but then she saw how Ghost always kept his eyes on the door, and she assumed it had something to do with his hyperawareness.

They didn’t always talk about Robb, or even serious topics. After the few checkups he’d had for his elbow, he would update her on that. Sometimes he asked her about a book or a knickknack she had on a shelf. Sometimes they talked about the guests that were staying. Sometimes they talked about Arya and Rickon. She’d fill him in on Bran, the only sibling he hadn’t met yet. A lot of the time, it was mostly her talking, but she didn’t mind.

She hadn’t realized before that it had been the opposite with Harry. He talked a lot and rarely actually listened. Jon was the opposite. He didn’t talk a lot, but she could tell by the questions he asked that he was actually listening.

Even with the lightest, most frivolous topics they talked about, Sansa didn’t realize how good it felt to be heard.

* * *

Sansa woke up with a jolt. She had thought it was because she heard Jon—that’s how she’d woken up the other few times—but it was knocking she heard, not yells or screams.

“It’s open,” she called sleepily, not getting up from bed. She assumed it was Arya. No one else would knock at—half midnight?

Jon and Ghost stood hesitantly in her doorway. She immediately sat up.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you…”

“No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“I, uh, couldn’t sleep,” he shrugged. She flicked the lamp on her nightstand and sat up fully, her back against the wall. That must’ve been his signal that he was invited in, because he closed the door most of the way and made his way across to the window seat.

She waited for him to say something, anything, but he was quiet. She might have normally filled the silence with something, but she was sleepy and couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” she asked at last. “Arya always watches something to fall asleep.”

“Sure.”

“Do you mind old Disney movies? It’s all I have up here.”

“That’s fine.”

“You pick one out. They’re over there. I’ll get the floor set.” She saw his confused look, but he listened to her regardless. While he studied her DVD rack, she hauled the pillows and blankets off her bed and arranged them on the floor. It reminded her of the sleepovers she used to have.

“I’ll get the light,” she said, once the Disney castle appeared on screen.

She flipped the light off as she saw Jon settle himself against the bed, next to Ghost. Sansa laid down on the floor next to him.

She tried not to think about where his body was in relation to hers, but it was hard when he was sitting so tense and still.

“This is my favorite Disney movie,” he offered. It was _Treasure Planet._

“Really? Mine was _The Little Mermaid._ ”

“I could see that.”

They both fell quiet then, absorbed in the movie.

At some point, she felt Jon slide down beside her, so he was lying opposite her on the pillows.

When she woke up the next morning, the disc menu was displayed on the screen, and Jon was asleep on the floor next to her, Ghost beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing as I'm posting now, so I'm hoping to have one up once a week.


	11. Jon

Even before Jon opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong. The surface beneath him was far too hard for a bed, and he _knew_ he should be in a bed.

Without being aware of it, Jon suddenly felt his hand over his heart, searching for the verification that he was alive. Before he had a chance to count the beats, a weight settled on his chest, and he felt a warmth against his legs. That forced his eyes open.

Ghost was curled next to him, with his head on his chest.

Focusing on Ghost, he felt his heartrate start to slow. If he had Ghost, he was fine.

With Ghost still on his chest, Jon took a deep breath and looked around, trying to understand why he was on the floor.

The first thing he saw was the window seat. Then he noticed the pale blue paint on the walls and the dragonfly suncatcher that hung from the curtain rod. It was fine. He recognized this place. He was in Sansa’s room.

Orienting himself had put him partially at ease, but the fact that he had slept on Sansa’s floor brought new anxiety flooding in.

Jon let his head fall back against the pillow, trying to remember what had led him there.

He’d had a good day yesterday. Nothing had caused his heart to race or his ears to ring. The only sweating was because of the sling. It was probably the closest day to normal he’d had in a long time, until he’d gone to sleep.

The nightmares weren’t nightly, but they were closer to regular than not. He didn’t usually remember them, only the feelings of terror and panic lingered, but he remembered the one he had last night.

He could still see the bodies scattered around him. He could still hear the screams, the cries for help. He could still feel the anxiety and helplessness swirling sickly in his stomach.

Robb’s voice echoed still.

Ghost had woken him and tried to help him calm down, but Jon hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. Normally, because he never remembered the dreams, he could fall back asleep after some water or reading something. Last night he hadn’t been able to. He’d tried for almost an hour, getting water, reading, watching cute videos YouTube, meditating, but the images and the feelings didn’t leave him.

It was the boxes, he thought, that finally forced him from the attic. The ones that all said _Robb._

Even with Ghost keeping him from feeling paranoid, he still felt alone, and that was the last thing he needed.

He’d gone to Sansa more out of habit than anything else. He was just so used to knocking on her door that he didn’t even think about the time.

He felt horrible once he realized he’d woken her up, but she didn’t seem to mind.

He was so grateful to her. Not just for letting him in last night, but not asking anything. He was sure watching a Disney movie on her floor was not how she had intended to spend the night, especially with him next to her, but she didn’t complain. She had just curled up next to him like it was perfectly normal.

He wondered what she thought when she woke up and saw him asleep on her floor, but the sound of voices in the hall had him bolting off the floor.

The last thing he wanted was to have anyone— _anyone—_ walk in and see him lying on Sansa’s floor. Those were questions he didn’t want to answer.

He started immediately for the door, until he realized that walking out of her room would be worse. He was pacing in a circle, trying to figure a way out, until he felt Ghost pressed against his leg, reminding him to breathe.

Jon took a deep breath, pulling air all the way in until he felt his diaphragm stretch as far as it would go, and then let it out slowly, the way Dr. Tarth taught him.

He would just stay until he heard the voices left and he’d sneak upstairs. That was the rational thing to do.

Feeling slightly better, he sat on the window seat, because that’s where he was most comfortable in Sansa’s room.

He wasn’t sure what it was about her room that made him feel at ease in a way the trailer and the attic didn’t. The trailer was too cramped, too restricted, too box-like. It made his skin itch now, thinking about how closed in the space was. The attic was better, and he was fine in it most of the time, the only problem was all the shadowy corners. It was easier with Ghost, but it still put him on edge at times.

Sansa’s room was different. It was larger than the trailer and brighter, less shadowy than the attic. It was airy and happy. The pale blue walls and gauzy white curtains reminded him of a spring breeze or a beach. Something lighthearted.

It also helped that from the window seat, he could see the door, her closet, and every corner of the room without having to turn his neck.

It was because of this that he saw the exact moment the doorknob started to turn.

“It’s just me,” he heard through the door, and that was the only reason he didn’t launch himself off the window seat. “I didn’t want to wake you before, so I brought you breakfast,” Sansa added, closing the door behind her. “I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s great, thanks.”

“Did you sleep okay?”

Sansa perched on the bed after she handed him the plate of food. He had just taken a large bite when she asked, so he was forced to nod rather than actually answer, which he was fine with. He didn’t want to explain that, with the exception of freaking out when he woke up, it had actually been a good night’s sleep. After he’d came down, he didn’t have any nightmares—he didn’t even dream. It had been peaceful.

“We must’ve fallen asleep. When I woke up, the disc menu was playing.”

“Huh,” he mumbled around his food. He didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t tell if she was hinting at something more—some irritation or some suggestion that he was supposed to pick up on by reading between the lines—so he gave the barest answers and barely met her eyes.

“I haven’t had a sleepover in forever. Took me back to high school.”

 _Sleepover_. That sounded innocent enough. There was nothing suggestive there.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a sleepover,” he admitted. Not in the way she was implying, at least.

“No? Well, I suppose they’re more of a girl thing. I don’t think Robb had many, outside of elementary school.” Jon wasn’t sure if that was truly the case, but he let her believe it. “We should do a movie night more often—maybe with Arya and Rickon. Or once Bran’s back in a few weeks. That’d be fun.”

“Yeah, yeah, it would be.”

And it did sound fun, but he had liked it just fine when it had been just the two of them.

* * *

A week and a half later, Jon was on his way to get his cast and sling off. Ned and Arya had both offered to take him, but then Sansa said she was going into town anyway, and he thought he might as well ride along with her.

He hadn’t spent as much time with her over the past week as he had been before he accidently fell asleep on her floor and he felt bad about it. It was just that it felt too much like _something._ And he couldn’t get his hopes up or forget who she was.

Forget who he was.

So, he put distance between them, or at least, he tried to, but it was hard when they both spent all day in the house. The only real change he made was not going down to talk in her room after everyone else had gone to bed. It was the least he could do.

But not going to her room meant he was alone with his thoughts, and no matter how much he tried to talk to Ghost, the dog’s gentle whines weren’t the same as having Sansa listen to him.

So, when she offered, he couldn’t help himself.

“Bet you’ll be glad to have use of both arms again.”

“I’m just ready to get back to work,” he confessed. “I like using my hands.”

Jon heard it after he said it. He felt a sickening flush flare over his face.

“I-I meant—”

“I know. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t design.”

“Yeah.”

“You must be sleeping better,” she said after a few moments of quiet. He couldn’t help how his head snapped over to look at her.

“What?” It didn’t come out eloquently or even calmly.

“Oh, I just. Just mean, because you haven’t, uh, come down, at all?”

“Oh,” he breathed. He hadn’t expected her to notice. Or care. He didn’t know what to do with that. “Sorry,” he said at last, because he didn’t know what else to say. He hadn’t been sleeping better—it was mostly the same as it had been—but not any worse either. Not like it had been the night he spent in her room.

“No, don’t apologize. If it means you’re sleeping better, I’m happy.”

Jon glanced at her, even though her words made something in his stomach unravel, just a little. She’d looked at him too, and her face, her eyes, were warm and caring and it nearly ripped him open.

She cared about him.

He wasn’t expecting that.

He wasn’t used to that.

* * *

When the doctor cleared him to go back to work, fully healed, with a gentle reminder not to take things too fast and to keep up with stretching his arm, the first thought he had wasn’t that he could start working again, like he thought it would be. Like he had been looking forward to. It was that he could go back to living in the trailer, if he wanted to. He no longer needed assistance with the most basic of tasks, which meant he could live alone again.

But the trailer was small, and it would be even smaller with Ghost. And all of his things had been moved into the attic.

And it was nice, when he did have a nightmare or just feel too lonely, too aware, to go down to Sansa’s room. It was nice not to have to wonder if she would make her way down to the trailer or not. It was nice to eat dinner with the other Starks most nights. It was nice to have the option for company right at his fingertips, if he wanted it.

He would lose all of that if he went back to the trailer.

He knew what Dr. Tarth would say, but he called her anyway.

“Jon, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,” she said, and Jon felt a bit of guilt and shame flare up. Not at calling, but at not calling when he first moved in with the Starks, the way he should have. When he wasn’t dealing and was a complete train wreck. Now that he was feeling better—not normal, still not close to normal—he found himself either calling or wanting to call her more.

“I got cleared to start working again. My elbows better.”

“That’s great, Jon, but I can’t help but think that’s not the reason you called.”

“They said I could go back to the trailer, if I wanted. I don’t have to continue staying in the attic.”

“Do you want to stay in the attic?”

“My stuff’s in the attic. It’s just easier to stay there,” he reasoned.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He did, he did, he so wanted to stay in the attic, but the words didn’t come, because something else worried him. It wasn’t as much that he was scared to want it, because he was, he absolutely was, but there was something else.

“What if they don’t want me to stay in the attic?” he asked, voice broken and raw.

It hurt to admit more than he thought it would. While he had gotten restless staying in the house, it was warm and welcoming in ways that were new to him and the idea of moving back out to the trailer just suddenly seemed cold and alone. What would be even worse than exiling himself would be to be banished, rejected.

“Now, forgive me if I’m wrong, but I have a note here that implies that the attic had been made up for you before you broke your elbow. This that correct?”

Jon crossed the arm that wasn’t holding the phone across his chest, pushing his forearm close enough to feel his heartbeat. Arya had shown him the attic almost two weeks before he’d broken his elbow. They hadn’t cleared it out just because he’d broken his elbow. It just happened to be there when he had broken it.

“No, you’re right.”

“So, tell me, what do you think that might mean?”

 _They want me to stay,_ he thought, but the words got caught behind the lump in his throat.

“That I’m freaking out over nothing?” he said instead, once his voice came back.

“Not over nothing, Jon. These are just issues that have been overshadowed by your PTSD. It seems like all of that is kind of falling to the background, would you agree?”

Jon thought the fact that he had a service dog and his night terrors would suggest that his PTSD had not in fact fallen to the background, but he could admit it wasn’t as front and center as it was when he left the VA, or even the first month he spent in Winterfell. It was had to focus on that when he was doing everything he could not to let himself get too close to Sansa.

Which, he realized, is probably exactly what Dr. Tarth was trying to get at.

“I guess.”

“We didn’t get a chance to get into a lot of your history while you were at the VA. Maybe we should schedule regular sessions, if you think it would help situations like these. Help to talk to someone.”

Jon had thought he was done with the sessions, with the therapy. He thought he was getting better. Regular sessions seemed like a backslide to him. So, he didn’t even think about his next comment until it was out of his mouth.

“I talk to someone. Sansa.”

“Oh? She’s the one you’re closest to, right? That’s what you said before?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you talk to her about?”

“Robb, sometimes. Their siblings. Stuff, I don’t know.”

Jon heard scratching on the other end, and he knew she was writing something down.

He thought of that feeling he’d had in the truck, that unravelling in his stomach, when he saw that soft look in her eyes. Thinking of it now only made his stomach tighten.

“I’m glad you’re talking to someone, but that’s not quite what I meant. I think you know that.”

Jon wanted to ask her what it meant when his stomach felt like this, if he should stay away from Sansa, or if it was actually good if he gets close to someone.

He needed to hear her say he was allowed to get close to someone. That getting close didn’t mean getting hurt. Or hurting them.

“Back at the VA, we talked about relationships sometimes, in group,” he offered.

“We did. I remember that you were often quiet in those sessions.”

He had been. Because he didn’t think any of it was relevant, or would be relevant, to him. Now he wondered if maybe he should’ve paid attention.

“How do you know where the line is, between friendship and more?” he asked, because that’s was worrying him. He knew friendships were fine—they could hurt, but not the same way anything more could—but where was that line?

“Well, Jon, I think it’s different for every relationship, and I think that’s something I think you should probably talk to this person about. You don’t have to find the line, stumbling around in the dark. The best way to find the line is to ask them, and draw it yourselves.”

He thought that sounded smart, but he didn’t think he could get up the courage to have that type of conversation with Sansa. He didn’t want to imply that he didn’t know where the line was, or that he was thinking about anything on the other side of that line.

“Who do you think needs the line?”

 _Me, definitely me._ He was sure Sansa hadn’t even thought of a line existing or what might be on the other side. Sansa most definitely just thought of him as a friend. There was no way she was up worrying about whether or not he said something that exposed too much of him, or that night he spent on her floor. She probably didn’t feel nervous with him around, the way he did her.

He didn’t answer Dr. Tarth. He thought his silence implied who needed the line.

“How do you know you need a line, Jon?”

That question sent his head spinning.

“What?”

“I’ll admit that I have limited information on the specifics of this, Jon, but I don’t want you drawing lines or putting up walls because of what you’ve been through. If you are actually friends, that’s great, but if there’s something else there, don’t feel that you can’t explore it.”

“What about my night terrors and all my other issues? I’m not exactly normal, am I?”

“We’ve talked about normal, Jon.”

“Healthy, then.”

“I think you’ve made great strides since you’ve left the VA. Had you mention or implied this before, I might have cautioned you against it, but consider the fact that we’re having this conversation, Jon. You called me. You initiated this conversation. Would you have done either of those things months ago?”

Jon didn’t respond. They both knew the answer to that.

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t be hard, and it would definitely be work, but I’m more comfortable with it than I would’ve been when you first left the VA.”

“You think I’m healthy enough that someone might want a relationship with me?” Jon asked, skeptical.

“I think it’s your other issues and not your PTSD that’s throwing these walls up, Jon. But in terms of your PTSD, I think you’re well on your way to where you want to be. I think if we had some time to work on the stuff from before the war, you might see this.”

Jon thought of that imaginary line between him and Sansa, and let himself pretend for a moment there was even a possibility of crossing it. It filled him with panic and dread.

“It’s fine, because this is all hypothetical, right?” Jon said, shutting down that line of thought. He pictured that soft, caring look Sansa had given him in the truck. That was it. He just wasn’t used to being cared about and he got confused.

He told as much to Dr. Tarth, explaining that he’d rarely had friends who were girls and that the girls he had been friends with were the rough and brash type, not like Sansa. It was the softness that had confused him for a minute.

Dr. Tarth didn’t sound convinced, but he agreed to regular phone sessions with her, to work through all the stuff that made him go to war in the first place, so she didn’t push.

* * *

That night, at dinner, Jon mentioned that he was planning on taking up all of his old duties right away in the morning, but that he also would like to stay in the attic, if that was all right. The _of course,_ and _you didn’t even have to ask_ eased the small aching that had been in his chest, but when Sansa flashed him a private smile, it returned full force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think this will be about 21 chapters (including an epilogue). I have it all outlined (I think) but sometimes these things get away from me.
> 
> For instance, I always thought this would take place over the course of the summer, but I like things to be natural and organic, and shoving it all into a few months doesn't feel right, so even though everything seems to be pointing to summer being the end, it won't be.


	12. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an outline, I said. It'll be 21 chapters, I said.
> 
> I sat down to start writing and 2 chapters not in my outline popped out so there we go.

Sansa didn’t realize how much company Jon had been in the house until his elbow healed and he wasn’t in the house for most of the day anymore.

The first day he was back to work, she turned to his place at the kitchen table no less than three times either to say something or ask something, only to be startled by the fact he wasn’t there.

She’d grown used to his presence and not having it felt weird, off. She didn’t like it.

It was too quiet without him. Even though he didn’t usually start any conversations with her, the scratching of his pen against his puzzle book or the padding of his feet as he moved through the kitchen created just enough sound that the house didn’t seem eerie.

Now, even in broad daylight, she found herself jumping when the washing machine started draining loudly or when the house creaked and shifted the way old houses did. She’d grown up listening to all of these sounds. They should be natural and expected, but because she was alone, they made the hair rise on the back of her neck.

She supposed she should get used to it though—the quiet, the being alone. She couldn’t stay in her parents’ house forever, and when she did return to Riverrun, she had no intention of moving back into her old apartment with Harry. She’d have to get her own place.

She guessed that was something she’d have to look into sooner rather than later—it was already early August and she’d have to be back at work in only a few weeks.

She didn’t want to think about that though. She didn’t think she was ready to go back to clean her stuff out of the apartment, or to start living alone. She’d grown so used to having her family around, and with Jon sometimes it even felt like her whole family, that she wasn’t even sure she could go back to Riverrun.

She felt at home here. Why would she leave her home?

* * *

“What’re you working on?” Arya asked, a few days later. Sansa had excused herself soon after dinner with the excuse of work, but the sketch she was currently working on wasn’t for anyone. She wasn’t even sure what it was yet, but she felt the need to get it out of her system.

“Just some samples,” she lied, because it was easier than the truth.

“So, Bran’s supposed to be home at the end of the week.”

“Cool. You know, Jon and I talked about maybe doing a movie night with everyone once he’s back. Think everyone would be down?”

“Yeah, that sounds fun.”

The tone of her sister’s voice made her look up, concerned. She thought Arya might be excited. She always used to complain that they never hung out all together. That Robb and Sansa would always do their thing, and Bran and Rickon would do theirs, and she was left in the middle. She thought, even though Robb was gone, having them all together might still be nice.

“Listen, I overheard Mom and Dad talking the other night. Once Bran’s home, they wanted to start talking about going through Robb’s stuff.”

Sansa felt her stomach hollow out.

“What?” she gasped.

“No one’s been in his room since before the funeral. I guess they wanted to wait until everyone was home.”

“B-but he hasn’t even been gone for a year! They already want to clean out his room?” she sputtered.

“They didn’t say _clean_ _out_ …”

“I can’t believe you’re okay with this! I seem to remember that you were barely at the funeral. You spent most of your time in the bathroom crying!”

“Yeah, but I dealt with my grief. Mom and Dad and Bran and Rickon, and even Jon, are all trying to. You’re here acting like everything’s fine. It’s been ten months, Sansa. You’ve got to start at least considering moving on.”

“What, by cleaning him out? Turning it into a guest room?”

“You know that’s not what they meant.”

Sansa turned her head away, not wanting Arya to see her tears.

“Robb wouldn’t want to see you like this,” Arya said softly. Sansa glanced over just enough to see that she was standing in the doorway.

“Well, he’s not here, is he?” she snapped.

Arya just stared at her before leaving and closing the door.

* * *

Sansa couldn’t sleep that night. She kept imagining walking into Robb’s room and seeing it like one of the cabins. No more posters on the wall. No books on the shelf or game systems on the dresser. No socks on the floor or unmade bed. His quilt gone.

She couldn’t stomach it.

After hours of tossing and turning, Sansa realized that while she couldn’t talk to the person she wanted to most, she certainly could talk to her second choice.

She’d rarely sought out Jon in the attic. The handful of times she had was because he’d been having a night terror. On all of those occasions, Jon had been asleep and she’d slept on the futon to make sure he was okay. She’d never actually gone up to speak with him at night.

It was fairly early yet, only half past ten, so she hoped he was still awake when she knocked.

“Come in,” he called.

Sansa edged in hesitantly, suddenly unsure of what she was doing.

“Hi,” she whispered, standing just in the doorway.

“Hi.”

He was sitting up in bed, Ghost stretched next to him, but the lamp was on, so she guessed that he hadn’t been asleep. He stared at her expectantly, and she realized that she was just awkwardly standing there.

“Is it okay that I’m up here?”

“Yeah, a’course.”

Sansa moved toward the futon and curled up on one end, hugging the throw pillow to her chest.

She looked at Jon, ready to spew all of her hurt and anger out, because she knew he’d listen. She thought he’d agree with her, but when she looked at his face, she found that she couldn’t. His eyes were soft and the least guarded she’d seen them.

She remembered the pain in his eyes when he’d told her _I miss this_ on the patio a few weeks ago. She thought about how much courage he must’ve taken him to tell her that.

He thought she was up here because she wanted to hang out. Not because she was angry and hurt and wanted someone to side with her, and she thought he was her best bet. None of the things that kept her tossing and turning for the past hour came out.

“How do you grieve?” she asked instead.

“What?” She saw how startled he look and she pulled the pillow tighter against herself.

“I don’t know how to grieve,” she admitted, soft and broken. “I keep thinking I am by doing all this stuff, but the pain’s still there. It’s barely changed. It’s easier, sometimes, with you, but…” She trailed off. She hadn’t meant to say that last part.

“I could put you in touch with my therapist,” he said lightly. The tone of his voice surprised her, but she still found a corner of her mouth lifting. “I’m sure she could give you some tips.”

“I might just take you up on that.”

She gave him a weak smile, but quickly she dropped her eyes to the tassel on the corner of the pillow. She didn’t know why it was suddenly so hard to meet his eyes, or why her own were suddenly filled with tears. Not the frustrated, angry ones she’d felt with Arya earlier. These nearly wrenched a sob from her as well.

She buried her face in the pillow, unable to fight the lump in her throat or the burn in her eyes.

She only raised her head when she felt the futon shift next to her. Both Jon and Ghost had moved to sit next to her, Ghost’s head on Jon’s lap and Jon’s hand on her knee.

“Grieving is different for everyone,” he said quietly. “Or, at least, that’s what Dr. Tarth said. She said the best you can do is acknowledge its presence but not let it take over. She’d describe it as this shadow monster…”

Jon trailed off suddenly. Sansa looked up to see what stopped him, but he was just staring at a corner of the attic.

“I used to think it was stupid,” he said. His voice was different. Softer. As if he was just talking to himself now. “It sounded so childish. A shadow monster. She said it would lurk in the corners of your mind, and if you ignored it, it would move out of the corners and take over as much as you let it. But she said if you acknowledged it, it would, after time, shrink and move out. Until one day you suddenly notice the shadows are just shadows and there’s nothing in them.”

Sansa thought about how it ripped her apart when she saw the quilts. Her grief had definitely taken over.

“How do you fight it?”

“Talking to you helps a lot,” he said after a few moments of silence.

For a second, Sansa felt dejected. She talked to Jon about Robb, and Arya was right. She was still drowning in her grief the same way she’d been in Riverrun. Instead of focusing on work though, she started focusing on Jon.

She realized suddenly, though, that how they talked to each other about Robb was different. Sansa told Jon stories about what he was like as a kid, times that didn’t hurt to think about. Jon always told her stories about their time in the war, but he also told her about how he felt about a lot of his stories and memories.

She always just told stories—never the emotions that accompanied them.

Was that the difference? Was that why it seemed like everyone but her was able to move on?

Sansa opened her mouth, intending to ask what he thought of them cleaning out Robb’s room, but instead she started talking about the day she got the phone call.

She’d been on her way home from work when Ned’s name came up on the car’s display. Her family didn’t really call each other often, they usually just talked in their family group chat. They only called when something needed to be talked about immediately. Sometimes it was something as simple as Catelyn being at the store and wanting to know if Sansa would be interested in a specific sweater or teacup for Christmas. Sometimes it was nothing important. But usually only when it was her mother calling. Her father calling was different.

She pulled over before she even answered.

“Harry booked me a ticket north as soon as I’d told him. Now, of course, I know why, but… I was a wreck. We all were, but Arya and the boys were better at putting on a face. I think Mom and I stayed in bed together for two days, crying. It was like… like a hole opened in my chest. Like I lost my other half. Especially once I realized I was the oldest now.”

It was that that did her in more than anything else. While they were planning for the funeral, she’d had the thought that the oldest should be trying to take charge, until she realized that she was now the oldest. It was up to her.

Being the oldest was different than being the oldest girl. Being the oldest girl just meant she set precedence for Arya. Being the oldest meant something else entirely.

“I’ve never said that out loud,” she realized. “I don’t even know if anyone else realized that it’s true, but… It was all I could think about for a while.”

“I-I can’t even imagine…”

“I couldn’t have either, before.”

She focused on the pillow again, feeling tears rising. That had been the part she had been trying to push down the farthest.

“They were the closest thing I’ve had to siblings,” Jon said quietly. “To family, actually. I didn’t have much of one growing up, but they… They were close.”

Sansa looked at him sharply. He never mentioned that. She’d inferred things, of course, but not that his squad was the closest to family. She didn’t know that.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say…” he stuttered suddenly.

“Oh, no, no, I just… I didn’t know. I didn’t know,” she whispered, dropping the pillow and grabbing his hand. “I… I didn’t realize you lost a brother, too.”

Sansa had been focusing on their hands, but she risked a glance at his face just in time to see it crumble.

Sansa wasn’t sure if he fell into her, or if she fell into him, but regardless they fell into each other.

He’d hugged her the once in the kitchen, and she held him the once while he slept, but this was different. They clung to each other, tears falling freely from both of them.

It was different from the other times she cried. It felt like the dam had fully broken. It felt like a release.

It felt like grieving.

* * *

Sansa stayed up, talking with Jon, the way she had so many nights before, but this felt different. She didn’t hold back or choose her stories with care. She listened between the lines of his, hearing the implied emotions beneath it.

She fell asleep talking to Jon that night, their legs almost tangled on the futon, and their fingers almost touching in the space between them.

* * *

Sansa was at the same time excited and dreading Bran’s return. She was excited to see her brother, whom she hadn’t seen since the funeral, but it also meant that they would have to start talking about Robb’s room. While her talk with Jon had her feeling better about the concept of moving on, she still was wary about the idea of cleaning out his room.

After she’d calmed down a few days after Arya had talked to her, Sansa apologized for snapping. Arya had hugged her and said that anger was one of the stages of grief, so she wasn’t too upset.

By the time Ned was pulling into the drive with Bran in the passenger seat, Sansa had decided she was open to discussion of it, but anything beyond that she didn’t know how she felt.

* * *

After Bran had a few days to settle in, Sansa found herself sitting at the dining room table with the rest of the family. She had known this conversation was coming, but did it have to be around the table? With Robb’s chair so clearly empty? Where everything felt so serious and solemn?

She could tell Jon was as comfortable as she was. Instead of taking the only empty chair, he was leaning awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets. She suspected that Arya had warned him too, given his guarded expression.

“Well, this is certainly dour,” Bran joked after everyone had sat down, aside from Jon.

“Bran,” Arya muttered. He winced a second later.

“We wanted to wait until everyone was home. We were thinking about starting to clear out Robb’s room,” Ned began.

Sansa breathed in sharply, and she saw Jon close his eyes.

“Not everything. We were going to do it in stages. We thought everyone could take something of his before we touch anything, and then begin with the basics. Trash, recycling. Any clothes we can get rid of. We’ll start small.”

Sansa let her breath out. That didn’t sound as bad as she had been anticipating. They weren’t turning it into a guest room. And, if she thought about it logically, taking the trash and unimportant stuff out made sense. The only problem was thinking about it logically when the time came and they actually opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research for the idea of cleaning out his room, so hopefully it comes across as an authentic part of the grieving process. 
> 
> Also, comments, of any kind, are so motivating, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. Kudos are also awesome.


	13. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY for disappearing. I had a lot of adulting stuff going on and didn't have the energy to write.
> 
> I'll be very busy until October. I'll try to get another chapter up, but updates will slow down until after that. Thanks for your patience.

Jon stood awkwardly in the hallway, halfway between Sansa’s door and the door he’d never seen open. He knew they were meant to begin cleaning out the room that afternoon, and he knew he would be seeing the room in only a few hours, but something about it made his heart race.

He’d never seen Robb’s room. Robb had invited him back when their leaves lined up, and even when they hadn’t, Robb had always said that his parents would let him stay in his room. Other guys in their squad had stayed in Winterfell, Jon knew they had, but he had never taken him up on the offer.

Jon had liked to pretend his life wasn’t quite as lonely as it was. He suspected that they all knew—he knew Robb did—but he never said it and none of the men did either. He kept up appearances, saying instead that he was crashing at an old friend’s place usually, or that he was staying with a cousin—some distant relative. No one ever questioned it, and he appreciated that, but now it left him with the impossible task of seeing Robb’s room for the first time.

He had thought to ask Sansa to show him the room, or even what she thought about him going in, just to look around, but he couldn’t get that look on her face when they talked about cleaning out Robb’s room out of his mind.

Instead, he went to Arya. She had been the one to warn him about the conversation that would happen once Bran came home, and the one who had watched him through the entire conversation to make sure he didn’t bolt from the room. He had considered it, briefly, but with Arya’s gaze, Ghost’s pressure against his leg, and the waver in Sansa’s voice, he found that he couldn’t leave.

He wasn’t sure if it was because he was determined to show that he was strong enough to make it through the conversation, or because he wanted to make sure that Sansa did.

“You sure?” Arya asked, appearing suddenly at the top of the stairs. He’d been so lost in thought that he’d jumped at her voice. Arya motioned towards the door he’d been staring at.

“Not really,” he answered, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “But I’d rather see it once, on my own.”

“I get it.”

She slipped past him and opened the door quietly, ushering him inside.

Jon was immediately struck by how young the room seemed. Robb had been a year older than he was, but this room didn’t make it seem that way. Something about it made him think of Sansa’s room—the youth and innocence of the pale walls and white curtains, the pillows and stuffed animals. Robb’s room was a darker blue than Sansa’s, and the curtains weren’t as flowy.

There were posters of sports teams and bands on the walls. The bookshelf was stuffed full with CDs, books, pictures, and trading cards. One of the shelves had several trophies and medals on it. The bed was made, but the quilt was folded back unevenly. There was a sock on the floor, and the top of the dresser had a stack of folded clothes on it.

It didn’t take his breath away. It didn’t send him reeling.

It hurt, but not in the way he feared it would.

This was a part of Robb he had never known—would never know—but he had seen glimpses of it, through Sansa’s stories and the pictures that lined the halls.

“I used to sleep in here,” Arya whispered, startling him again.

“When he was away?”

“No. When we got the news. Mom couldn’t stand passing the door. She spent half of her days in bed. Rickon was angry all the time. He sprained his wrist punching a wall. Dad and Sansa both tried to act like nothing was wrong. Bran—Bran’s always quiet, but there was something different about his quiet then. I was angry too, but not in here. I slept in here every night for weeks. It was the only place I felt safe crying.” He heard the way her voice strained at the end, as if she was trying to keep her emotion out of it.

“I-I didn’t know,” he murmured, turning towards her.

In the months he’d spent with the family, he had never heard Arya come close to breaking like that. She was the strong one, the one who had took one look at him and sat him down with a cup of tea and no questions asked. She had made sure he was comfortable and looked after and that he was something resembling okay.

He never considered how hard it must’ve been on her. She seemed so strong, he never stopped to consider that maybe she was like Robb in hiding it to make it easier for everyone else.

“No one did. I’d sneak over after everyone had gone to bed and woke up before everyone else. All my tears, I cried in here.”

“How do you feel about all of this?” he asked, because he realized for as often as Arya checked in on everyone, he doubted people were checking in on her.

“It’s time. We can’t keep walking past this room like it doesn’t exist. Like he didn’t exist.”

Jon watched the way she stared at the bed, the quilt there. There was a softness in her expression he hadn’t noticed in her face before. It reminded him of the soft way Sansa had looked at him when he went to get his cast off.

It was a sisterly look, he realized. It was similar to the look Arya had when she looked at him, and when she looked at Robb’s room. It was just the loneliness of his childhood that had him confusing the look for something more.

* * *

That afternoon, Jon hung back while the Stark family began to clean out Robb’s room.

Before they’d left earlier, Arya had told Jon to start looking for something of Robb’s he’d want to keep. Jon had looked around the room, but he didn’t want to accidently claim something that someone else would want, so he didn’t decide on anything. Instead, he watched closely as the family wandered the room, picking things up, reminiscing, and in Catelyn’s case, telling stories through quiet tears.

He found that as each Stark found their keepsake, an emptiness grew inside him.

Sansa took the letterman jacket from the closet, wrapping herself in it despite the fact that it was August. Arya took a stuffed wolf that had been shoved in the back of the bookshelf and cuddled it to her chest. Bran found a wooden sword beneath the bed. Catelyn had taken down a stack of quilts from the shelf in the closet and held them on her lap. Ned had taken a baseball cap from the rack behind the door and held it gently. Rickon had removed all the CDs from the shelf and piled them next to him on the floor.

They had each found some sort of symbol of their relationship with Robb, but the Robb who had lived in that room, the one who had owned all of this, was not the Robb he knew.

Jon hadn’t known this Robb. There was nothing calling to him, nothing that connected this room to the Robb he had called his brother.

“Jon?” Arya asked, coming up beside him. “Did you see anything earlier?” He shook his head.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sansa’s head whip around. For a second, he remembered the angry Sansa he’d first met—the one who had told him to take care of his recycling bin. He wondered if she was going to say something about them going into Robb’s room earlier. Sansa had clearly had strong feelings about it earlier.

“But… what about the guitar?” Sansa asked, voice soft instead of hard like he had been anticipating.

The guitar. It hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Robb’s guitar?” Arya asked. “I don’t even know where it is.”

“It’s in the trailer. I… I had been learning to play it.”

“Of course, you can have the guitar,” Ned said, walking past with the half-full trash bin. “I’ll have Rickon run down and fetch it when we’re done here.”

“No, I can get it. I think I still have a few things in there to bring up anyway.”

He felt three sets of eyes on him then, but he wasn’t running away.

The Robb he knew had nothing to do with that room. It was just a room.

He was leaving to give them privacy.

* * *

In the attic, Jon cradled the guitar. He hadn’t played since before he’d broken his elbow, and there was an odd familiarity in holding it. It wasn’t a feeling he’d had very often in his life. In fact, all the times he had felt that sense of familiarity were with the Starks.

Jon strummed idly, not really playing but liking the feel of the weight of the guitar and the rough of the strings against his fingers.

When he had gone down to the trailer, he found that he was right in the idea that the trailer didn’t suit him anymore. Especially not with Ghost, now. He took the guitar and the handful of clothes that had been left when he moved to the attic, and got out of the trailer quickly. While he had spent evenings with Sansa there, ones he’d enjoyed, those were far overshadowed by his first month not functioning.

No, he didn’t like the memories here. Moving back would’ve been stupid and, probably in the end, at least a little unhealthy.

Jon strummed again, the sound of the guitar echoing differently in the attic than it had in the trailer. It sounded larger in here, fuller. It filled his chest here, the vibration of the strings making his heart buzz.

He was just putting up the guitar when Sansa appeared in the doorway.

“We’re ordering in tonight. None of us much feel like cooking.”

“That’s fine.”

He felt his gut twist at how tired she looked. Her eyes were still a little red and she looked paler than normal. He guessed the rest of the family looked the same.

“Dad’s going to pick it up in about half an hour.”

“I’ll go,” Jon found himself saying before he even thought of it. “I can pick up dinner.”

He hadn’t been emotionally wrung out cleaning out the room like the rest of them. It was the least he could do, after everything they’d done for him.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. I can get it.”

“Thank you, Jon.”

He nodded, turning away from her. For some reason, he felt like those words had settled around him like a cape or a blanket. He didn’t want her to see what they did to him.

“I’ll let Dad know,” she said after a beat, turning to go back downstairs.

He wanted to ask her how the rest of the afternoon went, ask how they were all feeling, but he couldn’t find the words. He didn’t know how to ask about her grief, or any of theirs, it was so different than his.

While he thought of Robb as his brother, he didn’t really know what it was like to lose a family member.

* * *

The dinner was quiet but not uncomfortable. They sat in the living room, which Jon was thankful for, because the lone empty chair in the dining room would’ve been too much for all of them.

He found himself watching Sansa closely. The redness of her eyes and her pallor had struck something in him earlier. Her eyes had reminded him of something, but he couldn’t place what it was. He thought it must be a scene from a movie he saw before he went to war.

He wanted to do something to make that redness go away.

He wanted to do something kind, the way she so often did for him.

He just couldn’t think of anything.

* * *

Jon had gone back downstairs after everyone had gone to bed for a glass of water, and when he passed Sansa’s room on his way back up, he saw that her light was on.

He knocked softly, quiet enough that she could ignore it if she wanted to, but the door swung open anyway.

“Jon, hi.”

“I just saw your light on, and thought… thought I’d…” _See if you’re okay,_ was what he wanted to say, but her eyes were just as red as the had been that afternoon. She looked at him, waiting for him to continue, her head tipped to the side. “Thought I’d see if you wanted to go out and get some ice cream. That place in town is open late on Saturdays, right?”

It was dumb, it was so dumb. Asking her out for ice cream? As if that could mask the pain of cleaning out Robb’s room.

“Yeah, okay,” she said though. “Let me change quick.”

Jon waited awkwardly with the door shut while she changed. He noticed that the door hadn’t latched, and he could see a sliver of her room. He looked away before he’d accidently catch a glimpse of something he shouldn’t see.

He felt a flush rising across his face and neck, and he hadn’t even seen anything. He quickly downed his water to help cool himself.

“Ready,” she said a moment later, startling him. She’d tied her hair up and had thrown a hoodie on over what she’d been wearing earlier. He was surprised to feel a blush rise up again.

Jon was glad to drive them over as it forced him to focus on the road and not see what Sansa looked like in the early moonlight.

They pulled up in front of the small ice cream shop, surprised to see that they weren’t the only ones in Winterfell with the idea. Half the benches were full of young teenaged couples.

Jon wondered what it would look like if they joined all of them, but none of that seemed to cross Sansa’s mind as she got out and went to study the menu. Jon and Ghost followed quietly.

“Ah, they’ve changed the menu. They used to have this sundae with chocolate and lemon. I got it all the time when I was in high school. We used to come after football games and dances.”

Jon almost asked if he had just brought her somewhere Robb used to, but then she started talking about how she and her friends would sit on the benches in their fancy dresses and stay up far too late.

They ordered their ice cream and sat on a bench further away from the crowd of high schoolers.

Sansa pointed out the bench she and her friends had claimed as theirs, which was currently occupied by a group of giggling girls.

“Thanks for this,” she said quietly, bumping her knee against his. Jon tried to pretend that it hadn’t shot sparks through him. “I needed it.”

“Anytime,” he said softly, trying not to blush again.


	14. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to get another one up before Monday and things get really busy. If not, I apologize in advance.

In the week following Bran’s arrival and their start at cleaning out Robb’s room, a mantle seemed to settle over the house. It was lighter, thinner, than the blanket of grief had been after the funeral, but the house seemed solemn all of a sudden.

Sansa felt the weight of it settle on her chest. She felt like she had when she fled north. She had gotten used to not feeling it. She hadn’t realized how light she felt until the weight came back.

The only time since cleaning out the room that she’d felt light was when she got ice cream with Jon. It had been nice and easy—a relief after the emotional toll of the afternoon.

A part of her found herself seeking out Jon just for that reason, but it was different when everyone else was around and she could feel the weight of them too.

She only had a few weeks left before she had to go back and face all that she left. She wanted to leave happier than she’d come, and in order to do that she needed to shake the weight back off.

* * *

In the end, it had been Arya’s idea. She thought that they should all spend some time together, without their parents. Bran and Rickon would be back to school soon, and Sansa would be back to work. It would just be Jon and Arya left in the house, and both her and Arya weren’t entirely ready for that.

Which was why, one night when no one was staying in any of the cottages, the five of them sneaked down to the trailer with a few six-packs, the way she and Robb might have done, once.

They stuffed themselves into the trailer, Bran and Rickon claiming the couch, Arya sitting on a slight strip of counter that Sansa didn’t think was entirely safe, and Ghost stretching out on the floor. That left both her and Jon to sit on the end of the bed.

Sansa had spent many evenings in the trailer, and she knew it was small, but sitting next to Jon on the bed, so close that their elbows and knees couldn’t help but brush every time one of them took a sip from their bottle. It felt much smaller now, much more… _intimate_. Even with three other people in the trailer, this felt far more private than any of the times it was just the two of them.

Rickon was telling a story about how he’d gotten suspended when he was in middle school—a story that was new only to Jon—but Sansa found she couldn’t listen to it. She was far too distracted by the warmth flooding off Jon’s body.

She’d had a similar thought the other night too, when they’d gone out for ice cream. A voice in her head whispered that it felt almost like a date, especially since Jon paid. He said it was only right since it had been his idea to go out for ice cream in the first place. She had thought feeling like she was on a date would put her off, or even make her feel like drawing back. In putting a sold line down, but when she thought about that, the thought that followed immediately after was one of Jon crossing it. And it gave her butterflies.

She felt those same butterflies now, hearing his laugh, feeling his warmth, his skin so close to hers.

Sansa pulled her sleeve of her hoodie down, thinking maybe if the bare skin of her elbow wasn’t grazing his she wouldn’t feel the sparks she was trying to drown with her beer.

She focused on listening to the conversation happening around her, trying to ignore the feeling of Jon beside her, and the feeling of lightness that had returned to her chest.

* * *

They passed the night that way, drinking, telling stories, ordering pizza to be delivered to the trailer and laughing at the driver’s confusion. It was innocent. It reminded her of all the evenings she had spent in the trailer with Robb, but not in a way that hurt. It almost felt like they were honoring his memory or sending him off in their own way.

At one point, Jon ran up to the house and brought his guitar back down. He played quietly while they talked, and more often than not, Sansa found herself humming along rather than following the conversation.

“Did you used to play, before you enlisted?” Sansa asked quietly, only loud enough for Jon to hear, really.

“No. I don’t think I’d ever held an instrument, before.”

“You just picked it up quickly?”

He shrugged.

“You’re really good.”

“Thanks.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, something to keep the conversation flowing, but she couldn’t think of anything, so instead she took a drink.

“Do… Do you want to try?”

“Robb tried to teach me. I was never any good.” She saw how his brow drop and the way his eyes lowered back to the guitar. She almost thought he looked rejected. “Granted, we were always drunk when he tried to teach me, so maybe that’s why,” she added, motioning for him to pass over the guitar. “What was the song you played, that first time?”

“‘Iris’?” he asked after a beat.

“That’s it. How do you play it?”

“So, you put your fingers there… No, over a fret, yeah, there. Move that finger up a string…” he instructed, pointing. Sansa strummed but it didn’t sound anything like the song. “Here, try…”

He moved closer to her suddenly, his hand reaching towards hers. “Can… Can I?” he asked suddenly, his fingers stopping just short.

“Sure.” It came out just above a whisper.

Jon’s fingers repositioned hers, and covered them so that she was pressing the strings down harder than before.

“Try again.”

Sansa strummed the guitar again, and this time it sounded closer.

“That was good,” Jon said softly.

Sansa glanced up and was surprised to see his face so close to hers. It made her blush.

“Maybe we should try it some other time, when it’s not so cramped.” Her voice was louder than she expected it to be as she passed the guitar back. She saw Arya’s head turn towards them, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to take the focus off the two of them.

“Have you decided what to do, once your gap year is up?” Sansa asked Arya, adjusting so that she was facing her sister, moving her body away from Jon’s.

“I’ve actually enrolled in a few courses at the college in town. Not full time, just two.”

“Really? What in?”

“Just business.”

“Business? Really?” Sansa asked, surprised. That was the last thing she thought her sister would be interested in.

“I heard Dad talking about some new ideas they had for the place. I wanted to be able to help,” she shrugged.

“Bran, how’re your classes going?” Jon asked then, which launched Bran into talking about his psychology degree. Half the things he said Sansa didn’t understand, but Jon seemed to, and Sansa could clearly see how interested he was in what Bran was saying.

She wondered if that was something Jon would’ve been interested in studying, if he hadn’t gone to war. Or, if it was because he had gone to war that he was interested in what Bran was saying.

* * *

As the night wore on, Sansa found that it was harder and harder to ignore Jon beside her.

It had gotten hot in the trailer, so she’d rolled her sleeves up again, and Jon must have to, because at some point her forearm had rested briefly against his.

Sansa played a game with herself, trying to see how long she could let her arm stay there before it became too much. Half the time, though, Jon moved his arm first. She wondered, vaguely, stupidly, if he might be playing the same game with himself.

At the start of the night, she went through her beers quickly, trying to drown the butterflies and sparks she kept feeling, but she found that the more she drank, the harder it was to remember that she was supposed to be ignoring the warmth from Jon’s skin that she could feel, or the smell of his shampoo every time he moved his hair. So, she slowed down in her drinking, making one beer last as long as she could, until she felt the warmth in her face recede.

She noticed, too, that Jon was drinking slowly. He’d only been through half the number Bran or Arya had.

The more she tried not to think about him, the harder it became not to pay attention to every little thing he did or said. The more she noticed, the warmer she became, to the point that she found the trailer almost unbearably hot.

“Sorry, I’ve just got to… run up to the house,” she murmured, setting her half empty bottle on the counter beside Arya and picking her way across the trailer. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she added before stepping out into the cool summer night.

She hadn’t realized how flushed she’d been until she felt the breeze against her cheeks. Sansa stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, calming herself down enough to walk clear headedly up to the house.

Really, all she wanted was some air, but she figured if she was heading that way, she might as well go up and use the bathroom. She never much cared for the one in the trailer and how thin the walls were.

On her way back down, she found Arya waiting for her on the path.

“Wasn’t sure if you were coming back.”

“I just went up to use the bathroom.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“I said I’d be back,” Sansa offered. “I wouldn’t have gone up without saying good night.”

“You and Jon seemed cozy.”

“We’re in the trailer. It’s all cozy. I can’t believe we all used to fit in it and not kill each other after a week.”

“Well, I think we did try to kill each other, once. Remember I tried to make breakfast for everyone as a surprise and almost set your favorite doll on fire?”

“Almost? Half her hair was missing! She looked like she’d just come back from being tortured.”

“Well, it wasn’t my fault you left it so close to the stove,” Arya grumbled, holding the door open for her.

“It _is_ your fault that you turned the burners up all the way,” Sansa muttered under her breath.

“Bran, tell Sansa it wasn’t my fault that her doll got burned!”

“What?” both Jon and Rickon asked.

“Seven hells, not this again,” Bran muttered.

“Why don’t I know what you’re talking about?” Rickon demanded.

“You were too young. Do you remember ever camping in this?”

“Once, maybe?”

“Arya tried to make breakfast for everyone when she was eight. Nearly burned the trailer down.”

“And she did succeed in burning my doll’s hair off.”

“I’m kinda glad I don’t remember any of this.”

“Lucky you. You’ll never be trapped in the middle if you can’t remember.”

“Oh, that’s not true! Sansa wouldn’t stop asking me if Arya had taken some sweater or something at Christmas!”

“Because she _had_.”

“Had not. I’d drown in your sweaters, anyway. It just looked like yours.”

“Where did Robb fit in in your arguments?” Jon asked quietly, his shoulder just brushing hers. It drew Sansa back to where and when she was. “Was he the peacekeeper?”

“Hardly. He’d take Arya’s side more often than not.”

“He didn’t. He’d always cart me off before I could make a point.”

“Usually because your point was physical,” Bran muttered.

“Was he the peacekeeper in your squad?” Arya asked Jon.

Sansa leaned back, taking up her beer again. She’d heard a lot of the stories Jon shared about Robb, so this wasn’t new information. Instead of listening, she found herself watching Jon speak. He still held the guitar in his lap, but he wasn’t actually playing, just kind of strumming as he spoke. Her eyes were drawn to his hands, his fingers. How long and tapered they were. She wondered if they were callused from the guitar, or his work, or for some other reason she didn’t yet know.

She remembered the feel of his fingers against hers, pressing the strings down. The roughness of them.

She cleared her throat and shifted her eyes away, focusing instead on the chilled bottle in her hand.

* * *

“I’m going to get Rickon up. I don’t trust him to make it quietly into the house,” Arya said an hour later.

“I’ll help,” Bran offered. “I’ve got to get up early anyway.”

“I don’t need _help._ It’s not like this is my first time drinking,” Rickon muttered, stumbling out of the trailer.

“Good night,” Arya called, pulling Rickon after her. Bran turned to wave as he followed them.

“I suppose we should head up too,” Jon suggested.

“There’s two beers left. We could finish those first,” she said, peering into the fridge.

“Okay.”

Sansa grabbed the last two that they’d brought down, opened them on the counter, and sat back down next to Jon, handing him one. She thought about sitting on the couch now that it was open, but she’d already sat down at that point and she didn’t want to make it awkward by moving.

“This was nice. We needed it.” The weight in her chest was gone, she couldn’t even feel it.

“It was.”

“I’m sorry if you felt left out at all, with all our childish stories.” She had noticed how quiet he’d gotten during those conversations.

“No, not at all. It was fun to watch.”

He strummed the guitar again, the sound echoing differently now that space was less full.

“Can I try again?” she asked, setting the beer down.

Wordlessly, he passed her the guitar. She cradled it, surprised by the warmth it had picked up from being so close to his body. The thought alone made her blush.

“So, um, it was like this?” She fitted her fingers against the strings.

“No, not quite… Move that one there…”

“Can you show me again?” Her voice came out as a whisper.

“Sure.”

He repositioned her fingers, holding them as he had before. It sent sparks and butterflies and who knows what else through her.

“And then strum, like…”

Her fingers fumbled on the strings.

“No, like…”

He moved behind her suddenly, one hand holding hers to the fretboard and the other covering her fingers as she strummed.

“There,” he breathed, tickling her neck. She could feel his chest against her back, his arms around her. She could feel his heart beat against her back, going almost as fast as her own. She could feel how his fingers quivered against her own.

Before she could think about it, she twisted around and pressed her lips to his.


	15. Jon

All night, Jon had found himself hyperaware of Sansa. Her warmth, her hair, her smell, her voice. The softness of her skin every time he accidentally bumped into her. It all sent his heart skittering in his chest.

He was so thankful for the guitar. For something to do with his hands. Some kind of barrier between himself and Sansa. He kept the guitar on his lap, strumming every time he felt his anxiety rising or his closeness to Sansa too much to bear. He was overwhelmed by her always, but most days he could ignore it or push it down. Not tonight. Tonight, he was consumed by her.

Jon felt the change in the air after the others left, after Sansa took the guitar back. It felt like the air before a storm, charged and crackling. It made the hair on his arms rise, goosebumps appear.

“Can you show me again?” Her voice was little more than a whisper and Jon found himself swallowing.

“Sure.”

He hoped she couldn’t see how his fingers quivered as he repositioned hers. He hoped she couldn’t hear how hard his heart was beating.

“And then strum, like…”

Her fingers hit the strings wrong.

“No, like…”

He reached out to move her other hand, but realized it was hard at that angle. Instead, he moved around her, cradling the guitar from behind. His breath hitched when he realized he was basically wrapping his arms around her.

Together, they played the chord. Jon could feel how it reverberated in his chest.

“There.”

His breath moved a tendril of hair that was near her ear and Jon thought he might faint at the sight.

He let his hands drop, fearing how close they were, but before he could move away, Sansa kissed him.

He was torn between kissing her back and pulling away. For a second, he did neither. Then, he threw everything to hell and kissed her back.

Distantly, he heard the thrum of the guitar. Then he felt her hands on his face, pulling him close. That itself was almost more thrilling than the feel of her lips on his.

For one of the first times of Jon’s life, he was thoughtless. There was no voice whispering, no worries needling. No urge to check his heart beat, mostly because he could feel it beating everywhere.

He was focused solely on touch. The silkiness of her hair between his fingers, the dewiness of her skin, the warmth left by her hands, her kiss, her breath.

It all made him tremble.

“I-I’m sorry,” Sansa murmured, pulling back. Her fingers lingered on his shoulders, but she ducked her head. Jon could just see a blush rising. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. He was half tempted to reach out and push some of her hair behind her ear, but without her lips on his, he could only think of all the reasons he shouldn’t.

“I suppose we should go up.” She moved awkwardly away, standing and finishing her beer.

“Oh, yeah.”

He didn’t know why he felt anything like disappointment. It wasn’t like he thought it would possibly go any further than drunken kisses. He still felt a hollowing out in his stomach all the same.

The walk up was quiet. Jon had his hands in his pockets, and he tried not to notice how Sansa’s hands occasionally swung so close to where his would be.

“Good night, Jon,” Sansa whispered at her door, her fingers grazing his arm to catch him before he continued walking—because that was certainly what he’d planned on doing.

“Good night.”

He paused, her fingers still on his arm, waiting. She was looking at him, and in the half light from the bathroom nightlight and the moonlight from the window, she looked ethereal. Otherworldly. Her fingers trailed down to his wrist, into his palm, and she squeezed once.

“Sweet dreams.”

“You too,” he breathed.

She smiled at him, eyes twinkling in the moonlight. It made his heart stutter. It was even worse that she continued to smile at him as she opened the door and left him in the hall.

When Jon fell asleep that night, his lips were still tingling with the feel of her kiss.

* * *

Over the next few days, Jon found himself blushing whenever Sansa met his eyes across the room. He was busy with beginning to close up a few of the cottages for the end of the summer, and Sansa seemed absorbed with her work. They only saw each other in passing and at meals, when they were surrounded by everyone else.

Jon was tempted to venture down to her room, the way he might have before the kiss, but something about going to her room, secretively, at night, felt much different now than it had before. It never even crossed his mind, aside from the night they slept on the floor, that hanging out in her room, talking as they did, might seem anything but innocent and friendly. Now, all he could think of was how it was her _bed_ room and how hyperaware he would be of his every movement, or of hers.

So it wasn’t that he stayed away, exactly. It was that he didn’t actively seek her out when he knew she would be alone.

Jon was hesitant for more than one reason, though. It was partially because the idea of being alone with her made him nervous—gave him butterflies. But it was also because, if he was being honest with himself, he was scared that as soon as she got him alone, she would say that the other evening was a mistake. It was the beer, the guitar, the feel of the night and not so much the fact that it was him.

He was prepared for that. He was expecting that. He wouldn’t blame her.

And, really, he was almost more okay with that than the other option.

A drunken make out was something that they could easily get over with a little awkwardness. Anything more would be much harder for him to wrap his head—his heart—around.

* * *

Early the next morning, Jon awoke to a gentle knocking. He expected it to be Rickon or Arya with a list of duties, but when he opened the door, Sansa stood there.

“Hi,” he breathed, surprised.

“I, um, brought your list up,” she offered, handing him the paper.

“Oh, thanks.”

“I… I asked Rickon if I could. I-I wanted to catch you alone.”

“Oh?” Jon wasn’t entirely sure he was even awake at that moment. Especially with how the morning light was striking her face and making her hair shimmer.

“I wanted to say something sooner, but… Anyway, I just… I wanted to say… Well that, I might’ve had a few, but I wasn’t drunk. I… I don’t regret what happened between us, is all. And that I hope you don’t either,” she stumbled through, her voice hesitant.

Jon found himself being flooded with butterflies.

“No… No, I don’t,” he whispered.

“Well, um. Good. I’ll… see you later?”

“Yeah.” It came out strangled and Jon was embarrassed that his voice seemed to have disappeared.

“Okay, well…” Sansa smiled at him, twirled her fingers, and flitted downstairs.

Jon stood there a few moments longer, breathing in her scent that lingered.

* * *

He had been hoping to see her before dinner, a moment alone, but closing up one of the cottages took much longer than he thought. He had wanted to finish it tonight, get one completely closed up, but it was much more of a task than he had been expecting. He had to check the pipes, the seals on the windows, box up the linens to take to the house, clean out the kitchen and the fridge. He thought he’d be able to do it in the two hours he had before dinner, but he ended up missing dinner entirely trying to finish it.

By the time he made it up to the house, it was almost dusk and he was more than overdue for a shower. Sansa was the last person he wanted to see in that moment.

So, of course, she was sitting at the kitchen island when he came in.

“There you are,” she said, closing her laptop. “We were wondering what happened to you. Arya texted you.”

“Oh, sorry.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and realized it had been on silent. “I was trying to close up that cabin, down at the end of the path. It took longer than I thought.”

“Mom saved you a plate. You hungry?”

“Yeah, I’m starving. I need a shower though.”

“Go ahead and shower. I’ll warm up your plate.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, feeling oddly warm and domestic.

Some part of him was compelled to reach over to her, to touch her, make sure she was real, but he was gross and sweaty and instead he just booked it upstairs.

When he came back down fifteen minutes later, his hair up in a knot, Sansa had set him a place at the island.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” she shrugged. He felt that warmth flooding him again. It was so foreign to him—if he wasn’t careful, he might just become addicted to the feeling.

They spoke quietly, mostly just about him closing out the cottage, but Jon still thought it was nice. There was a softness to it—one he wasn’t used to. She kept him company while he ate and helped him clean up the kitchen when he was done.

They stepped around each other in the kitchen, but there were several times that Sansa passed so close that Jon felt his breath catch. Being near her, even while washing dishes, was so overwhelming.

Once they had finished, Sansa packed up her laptop and work things she must have been working on before. Jon thought that meant she was going up, but instead she piled it on the desk, out of the way.

“Come sit outside with me?” she asked, standing so close to him that he could scarcely think.

“Yeah, okay.”

To his surprise, she linked his fingers with hers and pulled him out to the porch swing, curling up beside him and pulling a blanket down over both of them.

They were pressed together from knee to shoulder and with that, Jon didn’t even need the blanket that was covering their legs.

He looked up at the sky to avoid looking at her and was struck by the fullness of the moon and the stars that scattered the night. There were far more than he was expecting.

“Robb used to talk about the sky in Winterfell. Everyone was in awe of the night sky where we were, but he always said it was nothing compared to Winterfell. None of us believed him, but he was right. This view is…Incredible.”

“Really?” she whispered.

“You don’t think so?” he asked, almost feeling deflated.

“No, I agree… I just… Didn’t know Robb noticed it. He always talked about getting out of Winterfell. It’s why he enlisted. He thought it would be his free ticket out.”

“He wanted out of Winterfell?” Jon asked, shocked. Why they enlisted wasn’t something they often talked about during their service. They were often deeply personal reasons—or, at least, Jon’s was, but from how Robb talked about Winterfell, Jon would’ve never guessed that he enlisted to get away from it.

“It was too small town for him—for me, too. All I wanted was to go south. He wanted something bigger than Winterfell, and so did I.”

“But you came back?”

“South wasn’t what I thought it would be.”

“That’s what Robb realized, too, I think. He was always so excited when he talked about this place.”

“Did he?”

“I mean, he never said… But, yeah. I think so.”

“Thanks, Jon,” she whispered, leaning more of her weight on him. He held his breath to try to control his heartbeat. He didn’t want her to know how much of an effect she had on him. “That wasn’t the only reason he enlisted, you know. He wanted to help. He thought he would be doing good. And then he got over there and…” she trailed off.

Jon knew what she meant though. It was the realization they all went through. He got over there and realized that they were the villains, the ones doing harm, not the other way around, the way they’d been taught. It had been a pointless, wasteful war, and every single one of them knew it. They just learned it too late.

“Is that why you enlisted, too?” she asked, voice innocent enough. “To do good?”

“Not quite,” he whispered. He was glad that they weren’t facing each other. He didn’t know if he’d be able to explain if he could see her eyes. “I liked to tell myself that’s what it was. And when the recruiting offices asked, that’s what I told them. But that wasn’t the truth.”

Jon took a deep breath. He and Dr. Tarth had alluded to it, but never actually discussed it. He had told Robb parts of it, which was why he was always pushing that Jon go to Winterfell whenever he had leave. Tormund had figured out some of it. Despite all this, he had never actually spoken the reason for his enlisting out loud to a living soul.

“I thought I’d be the perfect solider,” he admitted honestly. He felt Sansa shift next to him, no doubt to look at him in her confusion. He hurried on before she could meet his eyes. “I didn’t have any family. No one to mourn me. It wouldn’t matter what happened to me over there. It—”

He stopped, clamping his mouth shut.

 _It should’ve been me_ , he almost said.

That thought hadn’t plagued him in months. He hadn’t thought it in months.

_It should’ve been me to not come home. Not Robb. He was always meant to come home._

Jon had been almost reckless over there at times, volunteering to go first always, keeping watch longer than he should. He was never reckless with the lives of the others—just his own.

Sansa was quiet beside him, almost as if she knew what he was thinking.

He expected her to pull away—especially if she did know what he was thinking—but instead she pushed closer, her head resting on his shoulder, her arm across his chest. Her palm settled over his heart.

The warmth of it was enough to calm his racing heart, if only slightly.

“We’re glad you’re here, Jon. You know that, right?” she whispered into his chest.

He closed his eyes. It was almost too much. It _was_ too much.

“ _I’m_ glad you’re here.”

He swallowed, gulping really, trying to force that knot down, out of his throat.

“I am, too,” he breathed, honestly. Because he was. For the first time, Jon consciously thought about how glad he was to have made it back.

He waited for guilt to flood him, chide him, remind him that it was Robb who should’ve come home, but it didn’t. All he felt was warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be able to get the next chapter up the first or second week of October, and then I should be back to fairly regular posting for a while.


	16. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for this being so late. September and October were very busy.

Over the course of the next week, Sansa kept discovering little paper flowers everywhere. One had been in the handle of her coffee mug the morning after they had sat out on the porch swing. One had appeared on her nightstand. One in with all of her work materials she kept on the desk in the kitchen. One in the basket she kept her toiletries in. One in her hoodie pocket. There were a few in her purse the next time she opened it, a few days later. She’d found a whole bouquet of them on top of her pile of laundry in the laundry room.

Upon each discovery, she found herself smiling, unable to hide the joy and fluttering each time. She always had to turn away from whomever was standing near her to hide her reaction.

She never asked Jon about them, or commented on them, but she knew they were from him.

When she found the first one, in her coffee mug, she was startled with the memory of him folding a napkin on the first day she met him. She hadn’t seen what he’d folded it into, but she knew no one else in the house would bother making all of them for her to find.

And the fact that he had gone to all the trouble, that he had sat and folded each of those pieces of paper, left them for her to find without her ever seeing him, all made her feel like a schoolgirl. It was so sweet, so innocent. She wasn’t used to that.

She was used to displays of affection being a kiss, an expensive dinner, a new dress. It was always something Harry had bought her, never anything he made. Sansa had never thought about it until the paper flowers appeared, but suddenly all of those gestures from Harry felt hollow and prescribed.

Sansa didn’t know how Jon found the time to make all the flowers. She knew he was busy cleaning up and closing out all of the cottages as it was nearing the end of the season and only a few were being rented at this point.

Not to mention the fact that after dinner every night, they both made excuses to go out to the porch. They spent hours curled up next to each other on the swing, a blanket over their laps. They didn’t really cuddle, necessarily. They just leaned into each other, not forcing themselves to put space between them. It was like in the early part of summer, where she spent hours in the trailer with him. It was easy, warm. They chatted about everything and nothing. Ever since he told her about why he enlisted in the first place, Sansa tried to keep the conversation on the lighter side. It was all about high school and Ghost and Arya and the boys. They didn’t talk about Robb, or war, or Harry, or the end of summer.

Which Sansa was so, so grateful for because that was all she could think about when she wasn’t with him. She even put off doing her work for a few hours a couple of times because it just made her think of how she would have to go back soon. She would have to move back south.

She would have to leave Jon here.

And now that she admitted how she felt about him, she didn’t know what to do with the fact that they had a fast approaching expiration date.

* * *

She and Jon were curled on the porch swing, her feet braced on his thigh. There was a chilly breeze in the air, but she could barely feel it.

“Arya wanted to do a movie night before school starts up for all of them. Do you have any requests?” she asked, leaning her head against the swing cushion to gaze at him. She felt the slight movement, the bounce, in his leg. He’d heard her underlying question.

“Kids movies are safe,” he answered, voice too even. “Teen romcoms, probably. Preferably nothing too sad. No dogs dying.” His voice was lighter then, but Sansa could feel how tense his thigh was beneath her toes.

“She was thinking something along the lines of _Ferris Bueller_ or _George of the Jungle_. Nothing heavy.”

“That’s fine.”

“Think I could persuade her into a musical? I think you’d all get a kick out of _Tangled_ or _Mamma Mia!_ ”

“Absolutely not,” he laughed. “Maybe a classic Disney musical. A hard maybe.”

“She loves _Mulan_. She just hasn’t admitted it for years.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“She used to carry a little sword around and sing all the songs. Pretty sure she even sang it once at school talent show. Granted, she was probably six or seven at the time. Don’t think she’d appreciate me mentioning any of this, though. We only like to bring it up when we really want to make a point. And at her wedding.”

Jon laughed at that, actually laughed, and Sansa smiled. While things between them had been warm, pleasant, easy, Jon had seemed tense and quiet all day. The fact that he gave a genuine laugh at that eased some of her own tension she’d been feeling.

When the quiet of the night engulfed them again, Jon shifted a little, leaning his weight closer to her. Sansa slid her feet across his lap, so her legs were arched over his and her knee against his chest. To her surprise, his hand looped loosely around her closer ankle.

The warmth of his hand surprised her, but the roughness didn’t.

She was so tempted to say something. Or to lean forward and press her lips to his again, like she had the night in the trailer. But all she could think of was the idea that she’d only have two more weeks with him. And as close as they’ve grown, and as much as she wanted to, she didn’t know what that would do to him.

She didn’t know what that would do to her.

* * *

Sansa had been dead asleep when she heard the screaming. It had been so long since she’d heard it that it yanked her until she was fully awake and halfway out the door. She briefly considered what she was racing to.

It was like it was the first night Jon had moved into the attic. The scream made her heart stop, her blood roar, her adrenaline pump, and her instincts take over. It wasn’t like the shouting she had heard the other nights, the ones since he had Ghost. The lesser ones. This was something else. Something far more visceral.

When she burst into the room, she saw Ghost on the bed, nosing Jon’s neck and jaw, low whines coming from the dog’s throat.

“ _Jon,_ ” she breathed, taking a step into the room, her heart nearly choking her. The torture in his face, the way he was contorted, physically pained her.

With a sharp inhale, she saw Jon’s eyes fly open. He immediately nuzzled his face in Ghost’s fur and Sansa took a step backwards, out of the room, but her heel landed on the damned creaky floorboard.

“Sansa?” Jon croaked, voice raw and still breathless.

“I-I heard you screaming…” she stuttered.

Jon colored and her stomach sank.

“Just a bad dream,” he mumbled.

“That—that one sounded worse.” Bravely, stupidly, she stepped forward, closing the door behind her. “I-I’ve heard you before. Since you’ve gotten Ghost, it’s been less, and sounded different. This one…” She paused, not sure how to continue. Not sure how to say _I felt your screams in my bones._

“Sorry I woke you.”

“Do you need anything? Water?”

“No, no…I’m… Actually…” He shifted, turning his head towards Ghost again. “If you could stay? Just for a little bit.”

“’Course.”

She perched on the end of the bed, curling her feet under her.

“You’re right. That one…” The brief second Jon met her eyes made her heart lurch. “It was worse. I haven’t had one like that since the start of summer.”

Sansa watched Ghost settle alongside Jon, his head in Jon’s lap. She watched how Jon’s hand meditatively stroked the white fur.

She wanted to ask what brought it on, if it was whatever had been making him tense all day, but she didn’t know how to word it. She didn’t know if she wanted to know the answer.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Sansa hyperaware of Jon’s breathing.

“We could go down to my room. Put on a Disney movie,” she offered, thinking of the other time Jon had clearly had a bad night terror.

His hand stilled on Ghost’s fur.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. C’mon. You’ll like _Tangled._ ” With something resembling a chuckle, Jon nodded and slid his feet out.

This time, Sansa put the DVD in while Jon piled blankets and pillows on the floor.

While they had walked down, Jon had tied his hair up, and with it out of his face, Sansa could see just how tired he was. His face was nearly grey, and the shadows beneath his eyes were violet.

“You know what? You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Jon, seriously. Sleeping on the floor won’t be a good night’s sleep.”

“It wouldn’t be for you either.”

“Fine. We’ll sleep head to foot.”

“We’ll what?”

Sansa hauled the pillows and blankets back off the floor and onto the bed, but didn’t tuck the blankets into the corners. Instead, she put a pillow on both ends. She slid in under the covers and back until she was against the wall.

“Plenty of room.”

Jon stared at her.

“C’mon, the movie’s starting.”

With a look Sansa couldn’t read, Jon slid in opposite her, so that his head was next to her feet. She heard Ghost flop on the floor next to the bed.

“Thanks, Sansa.”

* * *

Sansa awoke sometime in the night. At first, she thought it was because the disc menu was playing, but then she felt the body next to her. For the briefest of seconds, she thought it was Harry. Then she felt the ridges under her palm. It took her a moment to grasp that they were Jon’s scars.

She quickly realized that they had moved during the night—or she had. Instead of sleeping head to foot, they were now head to head. She had flipped, at some point, to end of the bed she typically slept on. Somehow, she had wrapped an arm around Jon, his body flushed with hers from chest to calves.

She laid there longer than she should have, because his breathing was slow, deep, even. He didn’t twitch, or even snore. His body was warm in the way bodies were when they were deep asleep. Sansa didn’t know the last time he’d slept like this, but she wasn’t going to be the cause for waking him from it. So, she left her hand where it was.

* * *

When she woke back up in the morning, her and Jon were back to back, their breathing matched, so that their backs pressed together on every inhale.

She didn’t want to move—she didn’t want to leave him—but her bladder was urging her out of bed.

As gently and softly as she could, Sansa removed herself from the bed and was grateful to see Ghost leap into her place so that Jon wouldn’t notice the difference.

It was early in the morning yet, and a weekend, so Sansa didn’t bother to shut her door behind her all the way, thinking there was no way anyone was awake yet.

That was proven false when a hand grabbed her arm and yanked her as soon as she was out of the bathroom.

“Seven hells!” she hissed at Arya. “What the hell was that for?”

“I walked past your room and saw _Jon asleep in your bed_.”

“Oh. That.”

“Sansa, I swear on the old gods…”

“Nothing happened. He’d had a night terror, a bad one. We came down to watch a movie. I let him sleep in my bed because I didn’t think the floor was a good option for him.” She omitted the part about her also sleeping in her bed.

“Oh. Well, with all the time you’ve been spending together, how was I supposed to know? You certainly have seemed cozy of late.”

“We did kiss,” Sansa admitted softly, quietly. “Once. That night, in the trailer.”

“Oh.” Arya whistled, low. “Are—Aren’t you set to go back South after Labor Day? That’s in two weeks. How’re you going to…?”

“I don’t know! We haven’t talked about it. But we haven’t kissed, or anything, since that night.”

“What are you doing? This isn’t… You’re both going to get hurt,” Arya whispered.

“We’re friends that have kissed once. In another time, another place? Sure. In a heartbeat. But it hasn’t even been a year since Robb… And only a few months since Harry. And I have to go back south for my job. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“You weren’t here when Jon came to us. He was… zombie-like. Non-functioning. He’s… so different now. I know Ghost and time are part of it, but I can’t help but wonder if you aren’t too. I just… I don’t want to see him like he was at the start of the summer.”

“I know. We’re just friends,” Sansa repeated, as far from being wholly true as it was.

“Okay.”

 _We’re just friends._ It was accurate, but not entirely. There was something else there, something she was too scared to name.

* * *

Sansa was coming back from doing research in town almost a week later when she noticed an extra car in the driveway. One she recognized.

She abandoned the keys in the ignition as she hurried toward the house.

“Jon Snow,” she overheard Jon saying.

“Harry. Harry Hardyng. I’m Sansa’s fiancé.”

“I work for her parents.”

“Harry? What’re you doing here?” She skidded to a stop in the hallway, halfway between Jon and Harry.

“You haven’t been answering your phone and I needed to talk to you.”

Sansa risked a glance at Jon and the coolness, the stillness of his face, even as he met her eyes, hurt.

“Okay. Let’s talk. C’mon.” Crossing her arms, she led Harry out of the house and away from Jon.

Once they were out of earshot of both the house and the nearest cottage, Sansa rounded on him.

“What did you need to drive all this way for? Do you really need the ring back that badly?”

“It’s not the ring I wanted back. It’s you.”

“I’m sorry, did I hallucinate the part when I walked in on you with someone else? In our bed? While I was grieving? Was that all a dream?”

“I apologized for that—”

“Because that makes a difference.”

“—And I made a mistake. I couldn’t handle seeing you so torn up over your brother. It was tearing me up. I—”

“So, you slept with someone else?”

“That was an accident. We were barely talking to each other, barely interacting. I needed some place for my grief—”

“ _YOUR GRIEF_? _Your_ grief? I’m sorry, whose brother died?”

“I knew Robb too.”

“You could count all the times you met him on one hand.”

“Maybe I was grieving for you! Because you were barely there after that! It wasn’t the same. We didn’t talk, didn’t kiss, didn’t have sex. It was like I was living with a ghost.”

“Our relationship was a ghost,” Sansa said before she could think. “It was hollow. It had died a long time before Robb did.”

“You’re telling me that you’re ready to throw away all those years together because of one mistake?”

“It wasn’t just one mistake. We weren’t right together.”

“And you and the handyman are?”

“W-what?”

Sansa overheard how Jon introduced himself. He definitely didn’t say her boyfriend or even her friend. He’d said he worked for her parents.

“I saw the way you two looked at each other. All guilty. How can you yell at me for what I did, when you’ve been up here sleeping with the help?”

Sansa had never hit anyone in her life—except maybe Arya when they were children—but she was ready to punch him now.

“That’s not what—We’re friends. And he’s not the help.”

 _And he cares about me a hell of a lot more than you ever did_ , she wanted to add, but that would just feed his point.

“You’re not wearing your ring.” Harry’s voice was suddenly gentle.

“You can wait here while I get it.”

“What do you think is going to happen here, Sansa? You were going to move up here and just completely cut ties with your old life? With me? What about your stuff? Your job?”

“I’m going back to work after Labor Day,” she answered automatically. “I’ve got appointments to view apartments closer to the city.”

“So, you’re just going to leave your handyman up here? Summer fling? That’s worse than what I did. It was a one-night stand.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, there were multiple one-night stands, but there was no emotion. I was waiting for you to come back to the land of the living. Not like whatever’s going on with you and the handyman.”

“There’s nothing between me and Jon.”

“You know how this story ends, Sansa. The wife always goes back to her husband in the end, and the handyman spends his life pining for the woman who was always out of his league he deluded himself into believing he could have.”

“Fuck you, Harry,” she spat. “Get the fuck off my property.”

Her use of the expletive startled him enough into taking a step back.

“But… the ring…”

“I’ll mail you the ring.”

He stared at her for a second, almost dissecting her.

“You’ve changed.” He said this as if it was meant to be an insult. As if those words were supposed to make her crumble into dust.

“Good.”

Harry glared at her for a moment, and for one second Sansa was afraid he might charge at her, but instead he muttered something and turned back toward his car.

It wasn’t until he drove away that Sansa let herself breathe.

She was relieved to see no one was in the house when she finally made her way back inside. He was almost hoping to see Jon, to go over what had happened. To ask why he introduced himself as someone who works for her parents, but she was also glad that she didn’t see him because she had way too much anger, too much energy in her.

She needed to do something, needed to focus on something other than what Harry said. In what Arya had said the other week. In what she’d been thinking since she kissed him that night in the trailer. Pacing around the kitchen was getting her nowhere.

Restless, Sansa wandered into the basement, where Catelyn’s sewing machine sat.

Roughly, she dug through drawers and bins until she had the fabrics she didn’t know she was looking for.

Sansa didn’t know how to quilt—she’d helped with embroidering some detailed designs before, not never on the machine—and the thread continuously jammed up the needle. It might have been frustrating, and the pricks to her fingers might have been irritating, if it didn’t push out all the thoughts of Harry’s visit and Jon’s stony face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this has a happy ending.


	17. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the lengthy pause between updates, here's another.

Jon had been passing through the kitchen, getting water, when he heard the car coming up the drive. He knew that Ned and Catelyn weren’t due back until early evening from wherever they went. Bran, Rickon, and Arya were all trying to close out one of the larger cottages. Sansa had gone out after lunch and said she’d be back in a few hours, so he assumed it was her.

He thought to meet her, to ask if she needed any help carrying things in, because sometimes she bought samples of the product to figure out how to best capture the essence in the logo, and sometimes she went overboard.

As soon as he reached the front door, though, he could see that it wasn’t the family truck that Sansa had been driving. It was a fancy, shiny, red sports car. It matched the shiny shoes and creased chinos that stepped out.

Jon instantly knew who this must be.

He had douchebag written all over him.

Jon immediately retreated, ready to book it through the kitchen and out the backdoor before the doorbell rang and he wouldn’t have the responsibility of answering it. He wasn’t fast enough though. He was only halfway through the kitchen when the chime echoed through the house.

He froze, half tempted to continue through to the backyard, but something pulled him back. He didn’t know if it was bravery or masochism, but he opened the door nonetheless.

“You’re not a Stark,” Harry said instantly, pushing his sunglasses into his hair and moving past Jon into the house without invite.

“Um, no.”

Jon couldn’t help but stare at Harry. He was fair, his hair flowy like princes in the Disney movies Sansa liked, and expensively dressed. Jon could tell that everything he wore was made of the finest material and had been tailored to fit him exactly.

Jon couldn’t help but feel inadequate in his baggy jeans and sweaty t-shirt, both of which he got from a bargain bin.

Harry was staring at him expectantly, and Jon realized he had been frozen.

“Jon Snow,” he provided finally.

“Harry. Harry Hardyng. I’m Sansa’s fiancé.” Harry stuck out his hand, but Jon’s stayed next to his leg. He didn’t want Harry to see or feel how his right hand trembled.

 _Fiancé. He said fiancé, not ex-fiancé_ spiraled in Jon’s head.

“I work for her parents.” His voice sounded dead, even to him.

Jon felt a sudden flutter then, a rush of warm air and the smell of summer rushing past him.

“Harry? What’re you doing here?”

Sansa suddenly stood between him and Harry, looking breathless and radiant. He knew he was looking at her too closely—he could feel Harry’s eyes on him—but he couldn’t help it.

He was studying her body language, or trying to. He couldn’t tell if she was just surprised to see Harry or if she was actually upset about it.

“You haven’t been answering your phone and I needed to talk to you.”

To his surprise, Sansa met his eyes then, but he couldn’t read them. He didn’t know what it meant. What any of this meant.

“Okay. Let’s talk. C’mon,” Sansa said, voice firm. She turned on her heel and stalked from the house. Harry lingered for a second, his eyes sweeping over Jon, judging him. Harry’s sneer before he walked away, following Sansa, told him he had found Jon wanting.

Jon’s whole body was tense—the way it had been last weekend—but at least he had _known_ he would be tense, anxious, and edgy that day. He was expecting it. He had been braced for it. The night terror had thrown him for a loop, but he couldn’t really be surprised about it.

Last Saturday was supposed to be both his and Robb’s leaving date. The day they were free. The day they could leave that damned wasteland, that damned useless war, that damned military behind them and move on with their lives.

They had been so close to getting out.

He knew that day would be hard, and it was, but he had prepared for it.

He hadn’t prepared for this.

He hadn’t known he _would have to_ prepare for this.

He didn’t know why Harry had shaken him this much.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

Arya’s voice made him jump.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He could still feel Arya’s eyes on him, but he shrugged it off and headed back towards the cottages.

Jon was only able to get halfway to the cottage he was meant to be working on before he remembered the other reason he had even come back to the house in the first place. He needed a new can of WD40. He hadn’t realized how close to empty his other can had been when he had headed out that morning.

Groaning, aggravated, Jon turned around to head back to the house.

He was nearly to the back patio when he heard Harry’s voice coming from the side yard.

“You know how this story ends, Sansa. The wife always goes back to her husband in the end, and the handyman spends his life pining for the woman who was always out of his league he deluded himself into believing he could have.”

The words made him stop in his tracks, made his blood run cold, made a roar sound in his ears.

Jon’s vision swam with red, but he couldn’t tell if that rage was directed towards Harry or towards himself.

Because those words were far too close to true. Jon knew that—or he should have known that.

He should have seen this coming. He should have known better.

* * *

Jon didn’t see Sansa that night at dinner, which didn’t concern him the way it might have any other day. He was thankful. He didn’t know how he would react. If he would be able to ask how she was, or if he would selfishly pretend it didn’t happen for his own sanity.

Because the words were still drowning him now, hours later.

* * *

When Sansa first arrived in Winterfell, Jon avoided her because she had terrified him. He avoided her now because he was terrified of himself around her.

He was plagued by Harry’s comment.

Several days later, he was still focusing on it. It was all he was thinking about. He’d even had a dream about it the other night, except instead of overhearing Harry say it, Sansa was saying it to him. He knew it was a dream, knew it was his anxiety. Knew was rooted in issues he and Dr. Tarth were still working on, but just because he knew it didn’t mean he could change it. Didn’t mean he could stop those thoughts from swirling.

If he was feeling better, he might have felt happy or proud of the fact that he could at least identify it. Identify his anxiety, what was triggering it. If he was feeling better, he might have come up with a better solution, but he wasn’t feeling better.

He was spiraling.

* * *

Jon was holding the guitar without actually playing it. The weight of it against his chest calmed him, slowed his racing heart and forced his hand to steady.

The knock on his door was almost enough to make him set it down, but as soon as Sansa stepped through, he tightened his hold.

He had barely seen her since the day Harry showed up. The most had been in passing or at dinner, where he barely met her eyes. He was avoiding those specifically. He didn’t want to see her pity.

“You haven’t been around much,” she murmured.

“You haven’t been either.”

She shifted, crossing her arms and studying her feet.

“I-I know. I wanted to talk to you—about that night—”

“You’re leaving,” he said dully.

“I have to go back to work.”

“I get it.”

“You—you’re not—”

“You don’t owe me anything, Sansa. Least of all an explanation.” He didn’t want to listen to her explain why Harry was the safe choice.

“But you deserve one.”

“Sansa, I promise, it’s fine. I understand.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “But can I have your number? I don’t know what I’ll do without having you to talk to.”

“Sure,” he said softly, rattling the number off. “I’m terrible at answering calls though.”

“Texting is easier anyway.” Sansa offered him a small, rueful smile. Twisting his lips into something resembling one felt foreign. “I’m not leaving until Labor Day though, so I’ll still be around for the rest of the week. We can still do that movie night with everyone. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Jon refocused on his guitar, strumming a few chords that somehow came out angry sounding.

“Jon, I…”

She trailed off, but Jon knew what she was going to say. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I couldn’t choose you._

“It’s okay. I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t choose me either.”

“I—you what?” She screwed up her face and it took all Jon’s willpower to not think about how in a different context her confusion might be cute. If only it weren’t for show.

* * *

Jon stood quietly off to the side, behind Arya and Rickon.

Ned was taking Bran back to school and Sansa was heading back south.

He could tell that these goodbyes, though temporary, carried weight and he felt like an intruder being included in it all. He’d barely gotten to know Bran, and he’d basically already said goodbye to Sansa. It also didn’t fee right that they both had to leave while he got to stay.

When Sansa came to him, he didn’t know what to expect.

How did you say goodbye to someone when you didn’t know what you were to each other?

Sansa answered this by throwing her arms and his shoulders and hugging him tight. It was all he could do not to clutch her. He settled his hands gently on her back, barely touching instead.

“I want you to text me, okay? Whenever you need to talk,” she said lowly, so that no one else could hear.

“Sure.”

“I’m serious. I’ll miss talking to you.”

_I’ll miss you._

“I’ll miss talking to you too.”

“So, promise you’ll text me.”

“Okay. I promise.”

To his utter astonishment, she kissed his cheek before releasing him.

“I’m going to hold you to that promise, Jon. Arya, you better keep on him to make him keep it.”

“Sure thing,” Arya said. Jon could hear the confusion, the apprehension in her voice. Could feel how she was studying the both of them.

“I’ll call once I’m back in the city,” Sansa told Catelyn. “And I’ll be back up for the holidays, if not before. Maybe I can squeeze in a long weekend somewhere.”

“Love you, Sansa.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

With one last hug, Sansa loaded her last bag into her car and got in, starting the engine.

As he watched her drive away, he was surprised to feel the weight of Ghost grounding him. He was surprised at how badly he needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's five chapters and an epilogue left. I hope to have it finished within the next month (ish).
> 
> Again, I promise it's a happy ending. Sorry for the angst.


	18. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another!
> 
>  
> 
> I apologize for this chapter being short, but I realized I wanted a few specific things in Jon's POV that I had originally intended to be in Sansa's, so the next one should be a little longer.
> 
> I hope to have it up sometime in the next two weeks.

It had been just about two weeks since Sansa moved back south. She’d spent the first few days living in a hotel until she found a small apartment that was only a few blocks away from her office. It was nearly the same amount as her half of the rent had been, even though it was less than half the size of her old apartment.

She had called the landlord to let her into the apartment she had shared with Harry to move herself out. She made she to do it while he was at work. She didn’t want to see him. The only problem was a lot of the furniture they had either bought together or Harry had before they moved in together, which meant her new place only had the boxes of her clothes, a coffee table, a lamp, a nightstand, a desk, plus all her personal items.

She spent her weekends scouring secondhand shops and discount stores until she was able to fully furnish her apartment.

While she was splitting her time between the office and trying to find furniture, she still found time to text Jon every few days. Stupid stuff, really. Any excuse she could find to send something.

 

_The quiet here is weird._

_It’s still warm down here. It feels like Winterfell did in early August, not early September._

_I like my desk in Winterfell better than the one in the office. I don’t have a view here._

_The new logo for your beer._ _[CLICK FOR PICTURE]_

 

_Finally found a bed frame I like for a decent price! Apartment’s nearly there!_

_Finished apartment!_ _[VIDEO ATTACHED]_

She set her phone off to the side after she sent it, not really expecting a response, given that he hadn’t answered once to anything she had sent for almost two weeks. Instead, she turned to her desk, which once might have been covered with designs and logos, especially in the months after the funeral, but was currently home to the sewing machine she’d found at one of the secondhand stores.

It wasn’t something she needed, or was replacing, but she had spent all her time between Harry’s visit and her return South in the basement on her mom’s machine.

She could tell Catelyn hadn’t touched in since before the funeral, and she hadn’t bought any new fabric either. All of the materials Sansa had found were yards left over from either any of their quilts or the ones from the cottages.

She supposed she should have asked Catelyn, but she doubted her mother really wanted to venture down into the basement, or see the half-finished quilt Sansa found beside the machine. The one she knew must either be for Robb’s wedding or her own. Neither of which were happening now.

So, she took scraps and yards left over from all of theirs, and tried her best. She spent more time having to rip out stitches and rethread the machine more than she did actually sewing, but it was slowly coming together. And it felt good. It felt productive.

* * *

Sansa was getting ready for bed, her fingers cramping after hours at the machine, when her phone chimed, surprising her.

It was from Jon.

 

**New apartment?**

 

_Yeah. Moved somewhere smaller, closer to the office. Didn’t need all that space with just me._

**Right.**

**It looks nice.**

_Thanks._

 

She set her phone down again after that, thinking that Jon only responded, finally, because she had sent a text to Arya the other day to ask how Jon was. Arya had said he’d been quiet, but nothing really out of the ordinary. He was busy closing out the last of the cottages, she’d said.

It had at least provided a reason as to why he hadn’t texted her back, but him texting her out of obligation felt worse than his silence. She didn’t want him to talk to her if it was only because he felt like he had to.

 

**Arya started her classes and Rickon’s back at school. It’s really quiet here during the day.**

She stared at the screen, at the words written there. At the open invitation they clearly were.

 

_It’s quiet here too. It’s weird coming home to an empty house._

**It’s weird that it’s weird for me. I used to be used to quiet and empty.**

_Sounds lonely._

**It wasn’t, then. It was in hindsight.**

_That makes sense._

**Having Ghost helps though, even if he’s dead quiet.**

_Maybe I should get a dog. That’d make the apartment less lonely._

**Yeah.**

Sansa hadn’t really been serious, but maybe a dog would be a decent idea. Maybe she needed the company.

It had been years since she’d actually be on her own.

Actually, she’d never been on her own.

She’d had roommates for the first two years of college, and then she’d moved in with Harry. She’d been with him since. She had never lived on her own before this. Maybe that was why she was so unused to the quiet.

* * *

Sansa slowly got used to living alone, to the quiet, to working normal hours. She was careful not to obsess over work the way she had right after the funeral. She made a routine, a schedule for herself. Her mornings were much the same as they had been since she’d gotten the job; it was her afternoons and evenings that changed. Now she made sure to get home from work at a decent hour—no later than five if she could help it—and went for a twenty-minute run through the park around the corner from her building. She made a small dinner for herself and then spent anywhere from two to three hours working on the quilt.

In between all that, she exchanged occasional texts with Jon.

Usually it was just a few minutes conversation—checking in, sharing something about their day.

Sansa usually told him about whatever drama was going on at work, whether it be over font, color, design, or refilling the coffee machine. Jon usually told her about Rickon’s exploits at school or Arya trying to convince him to repaint the attic in a color of his choice.

Jon’s stories were usually about Rickon or Arya. He almost never told stories about himself after that first time he responded.

And Sansa convinced herself that she was okay with that. That she was just happy he was texting her, because she was. She just wished that he offered more than what she was already hearing from Catelyn, Ned, or Arya.

But even she could admit it was different, almost harder, talking to him with so many miles between them. As odd as it sounded, it was easier to talk to him about the heavy stuff, the hard stuff, face to face. Where she could feel his warmth, smell his soap, his flannels. Where she could touch him, lean into him, whenever she needed.

It was hard to be as close to him when she was so far away.

* * *

About a month after Sansa moved back South, she finished the quilt she had started. It was rough and some of the stitching was just slightly crooked, but it was one of the first things she made with her own two hands in years.

Her evenings were suddenly empty without the time she had spent sewing, so only a few days after finishing the quilt, she found herself at a fabric store buying yards of patterns, colors, threads, and batting.

The quilting made it easier to be alone, and it made it easier as her conversations with Jon got less and less frequent, on both their ends. What had started as close to every day slowly trickled into twice a week, into once a week, into a few times a month.

* * *

About a month before the holidays, Sansa was on the phone with Catelyn, asking for quilting advice. She’d made three after the first one with the scraps from the basement, and she needed to do something with them.

“Do the cottages need anymore?”

“No, we’ve got plenty for the cottages. There are a lot of foundations that take quilts though. For the homeless, for foster children, for hospitals or hospice. You could find one down there and donate them. They almost always need quilts. Or, I made a few to send in care packages once. I’m sure that would be helpful.”

_Care packages._

“What about a VA? Would they take donations?”

“I’m sure they would.”

“Maybe I’ll look up VAs around here. I… I think Robb would have liked that.”

“Actually… Sansa… I have an idea. It’s not finalized yet, and it won’t be until closer to the holidays. We’ll talk about it when you’re home, but don’t do anything with the quilts yet. I think I know what you should do with them.”

“Okay. I guess they can sit for another month. It’s not like they take up much room.”

“I’m so glad you took up quilting. I think I need to get back into it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’d been avoiding the basement, but… I think… I think it’ll help.”

Sansa wanted to ask what Catelyn’s idea for the quilts was, but she knew Catelyn probably wanted to talk to Ned about whatever it was.

And the holidays were only a few weeks away. She could wait that long.

And it gave her a reason to actually want to go home, because she was dreading returning North.

It was partially because of the phone call she’d had with Arya a few weeks ago. The one where Arya had mentioned that she was pretty sure Jon had started to see someone. She had said it didn’t seem like it was that serious, but he’d gone on what she was pretty sure was a date with someone he’d met at a support group he’d started going to.

That news hadn’t so much hurt as it did cause an ache. It definitely surprised her, because the Jon she had left those months ago clearly wasn’t ready for a relationship, but she had to remind herself that time had passed. And Arya had said it had only been a single date. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

The Jon she had gotten to know over the summer probably wasn’t the same one she would see in just a few short weeks.

The other part, the bigger part, was that it would be the first holidays without Robb. He had missed Christmases before, but he always video chatted in at some point, and this would be the first year without that. It would cause a pall to haunt the entire week. Not to mention that only a few weeks after the holidays would be the one-year anniversary of his death.

No, Sansa was not looking forward to the holidays or returning home at all.


	19. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this up sooner but it ended up being longer than I was expecting.

It was three weeks of being alone, or mostly alone, in the house before Jon felt himself slipping. Not he was when Sansa left, or after Harry visited, but like he had when he’d first broken his elbow and was forced to fill his time with thinking. Like he had been when he first arrived to Winterfell, before he started fixing things.

The difference this time though was that he didn’t have Sansa. She wasn’t in the house keeping him company or inviting him out of the house to get some fresh air.

It was her absence that gnawed at him most, more than any of the other Starks.

Despite this, he initially avoided Sansa’s attempts at keeping in touch. He thought they were only out of pity—thought she just felt bad for going back to Harry, until he heard Catelyn mention Sansa’s apartment hunting over dinner. At first, he thought she meant that her and Harry were searching for a new apartment, until she sent the video of her new apartment. Between that and the little bouquet of paper flowers he saw in the video, it became blindingly clear that she was living on her own. It was that, and not Arya’s insistence that Sansa’s intent came from no place near pity, that finally convinced him to respond.

Jon found that he wasn’t actually surprised that she didn’t go back to Harry. Rationally, he knew she wouldn’t get back together with that douchebag, knew it was anxiety that made him think she was choosing Harry over him, but her moving South still somehow felt like rejection.

Because of the quiet, the emptiness, the lack of Sansa, the feeling of rejection, he called Dr. Tarth.

They’d moved on from his survivor’s guilt and his feelings from the war and focused more on what made him enlist in the first place: his loneliness.

She recommended that he join a support group, maybe one made up of other vets, so that he made connections with people outside of the Starks. He agreed, mostly because he needed something to get him out of the house.

Dr. Tarth found him a group that was comprised of other Northerners, one just outside of Winterfell, that met twice a week to talk about everything from why they enlisted to why they sometimes missed the structure of the military.

She recommended that he try to make a few friends. Find some people he connected with.

The first meeting he attended, he thought Dr. Tarth was out of her mind. These people were obviously so much better adjusted than he was. They joked about their time, laughed about it.

Two weeks later, Jon realized he was wrong. A man named Theon talked about the nightmare he’d had earlier in the week, dreamed he was consumed by fire. He shook as he spoke and Jon saw himself in the man, in his story.

After that story, Jon decided to actually make an attempt. He started sharing at the meetings. He told them things he’d only ever told Dr. Tarth and Sansa. He told them about Robb and Tormund. About the explosion. About waking up in that hospital room completely alone.

* * *

A group of them started getting coffee together beforehand, meeting to talk about other stuff—non-war related stuff. Friendship stuff.

It felt familiar in a way that set him on edge. It was come strange combination of the way he felt around the Starks and the way he had felt with his squad. The way he’d felt with Robb and Tormund and all the rest of them. He felt at ease with them in the way he’d felt with so few before that it nearly shocked him into leaving the group at first.

The last two groups of people he’d felt that way around had left him—his squad in the explosion and Sansa, Arya, and the boys for school or work. He knew— _he knew—_ that none of them had left him willingly, but he was still the one being left behind. He was still alone. The reason didn’t change the pain he still felt.

* * *

Jon remembered when he thought _normal_ was the only thing worth striving for. When he thought that an apartment, a normal job, was so far out of his reach. Friendships were out of his reach.

Now, he could admit that he was _better._ It still wasn’t the same thing as normal, and normal was still what he wanted, but he could see the growth he made.

Now, he wasn’t just the Starks’ handyman. He worked a couple days a week in the hardware shop in town, which forced him to interact with people more often, and he volunteered a few hours at the animal shelter he’d first gone into with Sansa, which balanced out all the hours he spent with the customers at the hardware store.

Now, he went out with people from group—with his friends—occasionally on weekends.

* * *

“I need your help,” Jon said, voice quiet, leaning against Arya’s doorframe.

“I’ll be down in a sec. I need to finish reading this chapter for class.”

“It’s, uh, not that…” He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to ask without having her make a big deal out of it. He wasn’t sure which direction she would go: overenthusiastic or giving him shit.

A few months ago, he might have asked Sansa instead, but with group, friends, volunteering, and working at the hardware store, they hadn’t talked in a few weeks. He knew Arya said that Sansa was busier than usual too, and he didn’t want to bother her with something as stupid as this.

“What is it?”

“I’m…getting lunch with someone from my group? And I don’t know what to wear?”

“Don’t you get lunch after every group?”

“Uh, no. A group of us get coffee before.”

“How is lunch after different?” Arya still hadn’t looked up from her textbook.

“Val asked me.”

“Val? Who’s Val?” She was suddenly interested.

“Just someone from group. She was a combat nurse. Lost her brother-in-law.”

“And she asked you to lunch? Just you?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged.

“Like a date?”

“It’s just lunch.”

“But you don’t know what to wear to your _just lunch_?”

He opened his mouth but he didn’t know how to answer without making it seem like this was a date. Because it wasn’t—at least he didn’t think it was. It was just lunch. But it could lead to something more, maybe. Eventually. And she already knew a lot of darkness and she still asked him. So, he wanted to make a good impression.

He didn’t know how to explain that to Arya. He thought Sansa might have understood, but the idea of talking to Sansa about this felt wrong, somehow. Even though they were never anything more than friends. He still thought it would be crossing some kind of barrier. He didn’t understand what one, but he knew he didn’t want to cross it, so he was left with Arya.

“It’s my first lunch since… before,” he said at last, which was true. Unless he counted Sansa. Which he didn’t, because that wasn’t even lunch.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Okay. Let me finish this and I’ll be right up.”

“Thanks,” he said, breathing out a little relief that he didn’t have to attempt to explain anymore.

“And Jon? Don’t be nervous. Anyone would be lucky to have lunch with you.”

“Yeah.” _Maybe_ , he thought, but he’d gotten better about pushing those thoughts out. Or at least, not saying them out loud.

* * *

“Is that a new sweater?” Val asked, sitting opposite him in a little café within walking distance of where their meetings were held.

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

Arya had bought it for him as an early Christmas present after declaring everything he owned—hoodies, t-shirts, and flannels—as unsuitable “lunch” wear. She did the air quotes around lunch and everything. He was actually surprised at her fashion sense. It did look nice.

“That’s a good color on you. It brings out your eyes.”

“Thanks.”

“Is this your first Christmas being out?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You seemed to get agitated with the radio playing non-stop carols.”

“Well, they’ve been playing the same fifteen songs since mid-November. Anyone would be agitated.”

“Fair.”

“This isn’t your first?”

“Second. The holidays were definitely tough last year though. Yours should be better, with your family.”

 _They’re not my family,_ Jon wanted to correct, the same way he usually did during group, but no one ever believed him. They all said he was close enough to be. What else would he call them? Jon didn’t have an answer to that.

“Yeah,” he said instead.

They chatted lightly, easily, while they ate. It was almost like group or coffee with Theon and the rest of them, but weightier. More important—like there was more at stake. It wasn’t quite the same as all those nights with Sansa though. He didn’t feel the that same warmth, that coziness, but he figured that was more to do with the setting than the person.

* * *

After all the months of the Stark house being quieter, having everyone back for the holidays almost felt chaotic to Jon. Even though it was only Sansa and Bran who had come back, the holidays meant that Rickon and Arya were done with classes and around a lot more.

When Sansa arrived a few days ago, Jon found that he was almost nervous. More nervous than he had been for his first lunch with Val. He wasn’t sure if it was lingering feelings from their one shared kiss over the summer, or if it was because they had been friends, been close, but hadn’t really talked as much since her return South.

As soon as she saw him though, she hugged him and said she had missed him. Jon hugged her back but not in the way that he found he wanted to.

The first night she was back, Jon felt the urge to knock on her door, the way he had so many times during the summer, but he didn’t. He didn’t know much, but he knew they were no longer in that blurry grey area between friendship and something more that they had been over the summer.

* * *

A few mornings later, before Christmas, Jon thought he was the first one awake, until Sansa came out of the living room and joined him in the kitchen.

“You’re up early.”

“Habit from work. We have a big client and everyone’s pulling extra hours. I’ve barely had any time for—for anything else. What’re you doing up?”

“I have a few hours at the animal shelter before group later.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot Arya had mentioned that. It’s all going well, then? Group and everything?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“That’s good.”

“What about you?”

“Just busy, with work and everything.”

“Right.”

They were quiet for a minute, sipping their coffee. Jon wanted to ask how moving everything out of her old apartment had gone, but he wasn’t sure if that was something she’d want to talk about. Or if it was something she’d even want to talk about with him.

“Arya said you’re seeing someone?”

“I dunno if I’d say that,” he mumbled, suddenly embarrassed and hesitant. He didn’t know that Arya had mentioned it. That she’d found it worth mentioning. Or that Sansa had found it worth remembering and bringing up.

“You’re not?”

Jon tried not to read into the tone of her voice.

“I mean, I’ve had lunch with someone from group a few times. And we’re supposed to get drinks on New Year’s, but we’re going with some other people from group.”

“Oh. So, it’s not serious?”

“I don’t even know if I’d call it _seeing someone_ or even dating. It’s just lunch.”

Val was beautiful and tough and lovely, but he still felt like something was missing. Not that he knew very much about any of it; it just felt _different_ than what he was expecting.

“Well, I’m glad. I’m happy for you. You seem…” she paused, studying him. He thought he might feel uncomfortable under her gaze, the way her eyes traced his face, but he didn’t. “Happy? Or happier? Lighter?”

“Thanks. I-I am. I think.”

Sansa’s eyes caught his, holding for longer than necessary. He looked away first, suddenly feeling shy. It would be too easy to slip back into whatever they were over the summer, but she was supposed to head back South after New Year’s and Jon didn’t want to feel that rejection again.

* * *

On Christmas morning, Jon woke up with a tightness in his chest. This would be the first Christmas he would spend in a home, with family. The last couple years, he spent it with his squad in the barracks, and the most they did was have one of them wear a Santa hat and pass out little toys and candy to the kids in the neighboring villages. They’d have a better meal and Robb might have played “Jingle Bells” on the guitar.

Before that, Christmas passed like any other day. He remembered celebrating it maybe once or twice as a child, with a sad little tree decorated with strung popcorn and a small handful of poorly wrapped packages beneath it. The only gift he remembered getting a new pair of shoes.

He suspected, because of how the Starks were, that he would have something waiting for him under the tree, and it was such a strange feeling. He was looking forward to it. He imagined this must be what little kids felt like on Christmas morning.

Jon knew this Christmas would be somber though, given that it was their first without Robb. When they’d hung stockings a few weeks ago, Catelyn had sobbed over the one with _Robb_ embroidered on it. Over the empty hook between hers and Sansa’s. Jon was eternally grateful for Arya drilling a new hook next to Rickon for him, instead of putting the stocking they’d made for him on Robb’s hook.

When Jon joined the others downstairs, it was quiet. There were no tears, but everyone’s _Merry Christmases_ sounded wooden.

He sat beside Arya on the couch, Ghost curling at his feet.

“Mom’s making coffee, then we’ll open gifts.”

“How’s she feeling?”

“She’s teary, but better than she was when we hung the stockings. Opening gifts without him we’ve done before. We usually shipped him his, so this part doesn’t feel as strange.”

Jon looked across the room to Sansa, who was wrapped up in a blanket in the armchair. He thought she looked pale, but then so did the rest of them. She smiled wanly at him, just enough that it actually reached her eyes.

Once Catelyn came in with Ned, they started opening gifts. Jon didn’t pay much attention to what everyone was opening because he was watching Sansa. He knew he shouldn’t be, but he wanted to see her reaction to his gift. He wanted to know if it had been a good idea.

When her mouth opened, he hoped that meant something good.

“Oh, Jon. That’s so sweet.”

“What is it?” Catelyn asked.

“The labels from the bottles I designed. Jon framed them.”

She turned the small frame around to show everyone. It was the beer he’d been drinking over the summer, the one she said she had worked on. He’d watched a couple videos to figure out how to get the label off without destroying it and put it in a small frame. He hadn’t known what else to get her.

“What a creative idea. We should do that for everything you work on,” Ned said.

“The bottles were my favorite though,” Sansa murmured. “They were one of the first projects my designed got approved for.”

Jon watched her stare at it for a moment longer, before Arya nudged him and indicated his neglected pile of gifts.

“You going to open those or what?”

“Oh, right. Yeah.”

Arya must’ve have mentioned his wardrobe to everyone else, because he suddenly owned more than just jeans, flannels, t-shirts, and hoodies. They got him sweaters, nicer pants, button-ups, even a pair of shoes.

“You can’t wear the same sweater on every date,” Catelyn pointed out.

“They’re not dates. But thank you. I appreciate it.”

Sansa was the only one who didn’t get him something to update his wardrobe.

“Sorry, it’s more for Ghost than you, but I saw it and couldn’t resist,” she mentioned as she opened it. It was a huge dog bed with _Ghost_ stitched into it.

“It’s great. He always hogs the bed.” He laid it on the floor next to Ghost and watched as he eagerly flopped into the bed. She smiled at Ghost, a real, whole smile. One of the first he’d seen since she’d come back North. He knew he hadn’t caused it, Ghost did, but it was nice to see all the same.

Later, after dinner and dessert and a few Christmas specials, Jon made his way up to bed. He was one of the first to go up, except for Sansa and Catelyn, who had both only made it through one movie. He tried to be quiet in the hall, thinking them both asleep, but as soon as the attic door squeaked open, Sansa’s door open as well.

“Sorry,” he muttered instantly. He’d been meaning to oil those hinges for almost a month.

“I have something for you,” she said instead. Jon looked at her. She was still in what she’d worn to dinner.

“You already got me something, Sansa.”

“It’s something small, promise.”

She held out a palm-sized box to him, wrapped in soft cream-colored paper.

“I didn’t think the others would understand, so I wanted to give it to you privately.”

Hesitantly, Jon unstuck the tape and pulled the lid off the box. Inside was a small keychain, about the length and width of his thumb. He pulled it out to realize it was a weirwood tree, a heart tree, actually, with a face carved into it.

“Robb mentioned in a letter that you worshipped the old gods, and I read somewhere that trinkets and stuff can help with grounding. I saw it while I was checking out and thought of you.”

Jon rubbed his finger over the tree, roots, and leaves.

“I-It’s brilliant. Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas, Jon.

“You too, Sansa.”

She closed the door, retreating back to her room. Jon stood there for another minute, running his finger over the keychain.

That warmth he missed every time he was with Val? He suddenly felt it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 4 chapters to go!


	20. Sansa

On the last day before Sansa was meant to head back North for the holidays, Mya, her only friend in the office, appeared with a file folder.

“You’re from Winterfell, right? That’s where your family is?”

“Yeah,” Sansa answered slowly. Mya worked in the HR department and her visiting for work related reasons made Sansa tense.

Her boss had welcomed her back when she returned after Labor Day and had never mentioned her several months of working remotely. This couldn’t be about that.

Mya came in and shut the door behind her.

“Nobody’s supposed to know about this yet, so don’t tell anyone I told you, but there’s a few positions opening in the branch outside Winterfell.”

“What?”

“They’re expanding. They’ll start looking for applicants in the new year. I brought you one. You could transfer closer to home.” Mya passed her the folder.

Inside, Sansa found a request for transfer and an application.

“I thought, after everything that happened with your brother, and Harry… You don’t really have anything tying you here.”

Sansa opened her mouth, looking at the forms, but nothing came out. Mya was right. Sansa had stayed after graduating and applied for jobs in the area because of Harry. Without Harry, her job was the only thing keeping her here. She did, briefly, consider looking for a new job when she first moved into her new apartment, but she didn’t want to start over. She had worked her way up here. She didn’t want to lose that progress.

Transferring wouldn’t be starting over. It was a lateral move.

It wasn’t a terrible idea.

“Paperwork won’t be due until January, so take the holidays to think about it. It might be good for you.”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks.”

Sansa stared at the paperwork for a moment longer before sliding them into her bag. It was something to consider.

* * *

Being back home, after months in the South, in her apartment, felt off somehow. Sansa couldn’t place what it was—it wasn’t her room or her family or any of that. That all felt the same as it had over the summer. It was something else.

It was Jon.

It was the emptiness of her window seat in the evenings and her being at a loss of where to look when over the summer she would have looked to him.

Even though the time they spent together was only half the amount of time they spent apart, the few months together had impacted her more. The routines they’d kept, the moments they shared, that all carried more weight than the fall did.

She felt the absences of whatever it was they had over the summer like a wound. It throbbed with every missed interaction, every time they would have touched over the summer but left feet between them now.

The only moment that felt right, that felt like how she thought it should, was on Christmas when she gave him the keychain in the hall. That moment, that exchange, almost felt like it was summer all over again.

Sansa found it so strange, especially given that her and Jon hadn’t stayed in touch much in the months that she returned South. They only texted occasionally, but somehow their distance felt like actual distance when they were in the same room instead of miles apart.

With focusing on work and the quilts, she’d forgotten how much she’d missed him.

* * *

A couple of days after Christmas, Arya found her studying the forms Mya had given her.

“What’re those?”

“Application and transfer requests. The branch up here is expanding.”

“You’re moving back North?”

“I’m not sure. I signed a month-to-month lease.”

“Have Mom and Dad talked to you yet?”

“About what?”

“C’mon. I think they’re both in the office.”

“What? Ugh,” Sansa groaned as Arya had already headed in that direction, forcing her to follow.

“Sansa’s moving back,” Arya announced.

“Ar—I’m no—I’m not sure,” Sansa stuttered. She hadn’t thought about talking about this with anyone until she made up her mind. Or until she her application and transfer were approved.

“What about your job?” Catelyn asked.

Sansa explained about the opportunity and about her lease. There was nothing to keep her South.

“So, I thought she should talk to you. About the thing.”

“Thing? What thing?”

“Arya, close the door, please?”

The click of the latch echoed in the room. Sansa had no idea what was going on.

“You remember the center Jon got Ghost from?”

“Yeah. Their marketing sucked,” she recalled.

“They rent the office building because of funding. They get a stipend from the government, but everything else is through donations and volunteering. The dogs, toys, food, everything. They do everything themselves, which is why their pamphlet and website look the way they do.”

Sansa nodded along. That all made sense. It explained why the place was so empty, why they seemed to lack an identity. She just didn’t know why her parents were explaining it to her or why Arya referred to it as _The Thing_. Or what this had to do with her potentially moving North.

“When we quit our jobs, when we wanted to build the cottages, it was because we wanted to make an impact, a difference.”

“Yeah, I remember the speech you guys made.”

“After everything that happened with…with Robb, and Jon… We wanted to do more.”

Sansa tried to hide her shock at the mention of both Robb and Jon’s names. She just wasn’t expecting to hear Robb’s in the conversation, and Jon’s… Jon’s surprised her because she didn’t know how affected her parents had been by him.

“We have more space, more funding, so we’re offering our space to the center.”

“What?” She was not expecting that.

“We’ll keep a few of the larger cottages to rent out to families during the summer, but the other cottages will be for the center—dogs, volunteers, trainers. They’ll be in use year-round then.”

“We were wondering if you would design the new logo and help out with the website.”

“Yeah, a’course.”

“We’re doing a grand opening in a few months, if you could make it.”

“Which you could, easily, if you moved back North,” Arya piped up.

“It would also be a good place to sell or donate your quilts,” Catelyn added. “I—I’ll probably have a few by then too.”

“Really?”

Even Ned turned to Catelyn then.

“Maybe just some dog-sized ones. But I’ll have something.”

“See? Now you have to move back North.”

“I’m thinking about it, Arya.”

“Good.”

“We’re trying to keep this quiet until everything finalizes, so don’t mention it to Jon or anyone, okay?”

“Sure.” Sansa stood then, needing to process everything.

“Hey Sansa? You know we’d be happy for you to move back home for a while, if you need to.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

Sansa spent the next few days staring at the forms, debating on filling them out or trashing them. Everything, everything pointed to her transferring, to moving back North. Mya had been dead right—there was absolutely nothing tying her below the Neck anymore. She could move back, start over. She could move home, save up some money, be able to rent a bigger place on her own, a place she could grow into.

Logically, everything told her to move back North. Something was stopped her though, something outside of logic.

She was hesitating because Jon was getting better. He was healing, which would mean that he wouldn’t need the Starks anymore.

She didn’t want to be here when he decided it was time to move on.

* * *

Sansa spent New Year’s Eve in the basement, working on a quilt. Arya and the boys were upstairs watching every music video they could from the year, her parents had gone to bed hours ago, and Jon had left for the bar to meet up with his friends from group. And the woman who he apparently was not seeing but seeing for drinks on New Year’s Eve.

She had headed down to the basement before Jon left. He had come down earlier in the evening wearing some of his new clothes he’d gotten for Christmas. Something about that—about his dressed-up appearance—had caused her heart to catch. She’d never seen him dressed so formally. She remembered how over the summer, before they got close, she often found herself watching him as he worked—walking to or from the house—sweaty, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up. She remembered how she had to tear her eyes away, how she’d blush. Now, with his hair loose and slightly damp from the shower, in a dove grey button-up with the sleeved rolled up and dark washed jeans, she found she couldn’t even tear her eyes away.

Until she remembered it was all for someone else—the woman from group who no doubt knew him in a way Sansa never could. It was that realization that sent her into the basement to work on a quilt—far away from both Jon and her applications.

* * *

Sansa had no interest in staying up until midnight or ringing in the New Year with a real celebration, so she went up to bed when her fingers started to cramp. It was still fairly early in the evening—only ten-thirty—so she wasn’t really tired. Instead, she curled up on her window seat with a novel she’d been meaning to finish, determined to do it before midnight.

* * *

At quarter after midnight, Sansa’s light was still on. She’d just finished her book and was starting to get ready for bed when someone knocked. She assumed it was Arya coming to wish her a happy New Year’s, maybe to talk her into a glass of champagne. When she opened the door, she didn’t think for a second that it could be anyone other than Arya on the other side of the door.

It was Jon, and the sight of him, in the slightly rumpled button-up with his hands in his pockets, sent her heart racing.

“Jon,” she said, surprised.

“I saw your light on,” he offered. His voice was quiet but rough, the way it had been all those months ago the night in the trailer. The night they’d kissed.

“How was drinks with everyone?”

Sansa moved away from the doorframe, giving him room to come in if he wanted. He took a few steps in, Ghost by his side. She expected him to sit on her window seat, the way he always did, but instead he hovered right inside the door.

“Fine. We all left right after midnight. Bar was loud.”

“Ah, yeah. Tends to happen with bars on New Year’s.”

“Yeah.”

She leaned against the wall opposite him, unsure of what he was doing here, of why he knocked on her door. He wasn’t sitting down, and he looked tired. He clearly came with a purpose, and that made her nervous.

“We were close, right?” he asked suddenly. His right hand moved from his pocket to Ghost’s head. Sansa only saw the tremble because she was looking for it. “At the end of summer, we were friends, right?”

“Yeah, of course we were,” she whispered, heart thundering.

“I know…” he began slowly. “I know you moved back because of your job. I understand that. But I miss talking to you. It feels weird not.”

“I miss talking to you too,” she gushed, relieved. “I just thought… I thought you might’ve been mad, about how we left things. With Harry showing up… and everything.”

“No, I wasn’t mad,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes. “I was… I thought you were choosing Harry. And that made sense, because I wasn’t a good choice—”

“You’re a far better choice than he would’ve been, Jon,” she cut in. “He’s a dick and a douche.”

“And a stable person with money. I’m not.”

Sansa saw something silver leave Jon’s left pocket and with a jolt she realized it was the keychain she’d given him just a few days ago.

“I wasn’t choosing him, Jon. I had to go back, for my job.”

“I know. But that’s not what my brain told me.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, moving closer to him. She wanted to reach out, hug him, but she didn’t know how, when he was maybe seeing someone.

“Just… promise me, when you go back, we’ll keep in touch this time?”

“Of course, Jon.” She’d text him every day if that’s what he wanted.

He nodded once, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers.

“Happy New Year’s, Sansa.” His voice was gruff and it took everything Sansa had to not engulf him in her arms.

“You too, Jon. You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close y'all


	21. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I might have added stuff that I had not originally planned for. Which means there will most likely be more like 25 chapters, not 23, which I prefer because 5 is a nicer number.

Sansa was in the kitchen when Jon came down to ask how his outfit looked. He was wearing some of the new clothes he’d gotten, and he wanted to know if they were too formal for the bar they were going to. She was sitting alone at the counter, sketching something in one of her notebooks. It was her opinion he wanted, as he trusted her fashion sense more than Arya’s, but the focused way she studied the page kept him from asking. Instead, he went and fount Arya, who assured him that he looked fine.

When he came back through, Sansa was still working, alone. He paused, wanting to say or do something. He considered asking her to join them. He thought the others probably wouldn’t mind, given it was New Year’s and they were going to a bar, not group. They all got what it was like spending the holidays alone, but the words didn’t come. He _thought_ the others wouldn’t mind, but he didn’t know for sure. And with them, there was no telling what they’d be talking about over their pints. While he thought Sansa could probably understand the darkness inside him, inside them all, that didn’t mean that she needed to spend her New Year’s surrounded by it, so he said nothing.

* * *

At the bar, Jon realized he probably made the right call. They weren’t morbid or morose, but they weren’t really cheery either. They talked about past ways they’ve brought in the new year, and though that sounded lighthearted in theory, it just led to talking about everyone they wished were welcoming the new year with them.

It was nice. It was fine. It was like group in that it was cathartic but it also wasn’t what Jon needed in that moment.

Or maybe it wasn’t what he wanted.

As the night wore on, Jon found himself watching the time more closely. He wanted it to be midnight. He wanted to go home.

The more he drank, the louder and more crowded the bar seemed. Despite the number of people in the small space, it didn’t feel as warm as he thought it would. He thought he would be sweating in a place this cramped, but he wasn’t. The only part of him that felt too warm were his feet, and that had more to do with Ghost lying on them than anything else.

When the countdown on the TV behind the bar announced that it was officially the new year, Val leaned over from where she was sitting next to him, kissing him on the cheek.

The gesture shocked him. He froze.

“Happy New Year, Jon.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, finishing his beer and feigning sudden interest in Theon’s conversation.

He didn’t know how to respond to it.

It didn’t know what it meant.

He didn’t know if he wanted to.

“I think I’m going to head home,” he announced, somewhat awkwardly. “Too loud,” he offered when everyone turned to him. Theon and some of the others nodded, agreeing and standing.

In the parking lot, they parted ways. Typically, he and Val hugged, but this time he skirted around it by tying his shoe and fixing Ghost’s leash.

* * *

Jon honestly planned on going to bed. He was a bit buzzed, even after the walk home, and tired. And confused.

But he saw Sansa’s light on and he couldn’t help himself.

He knocked.

* * *

When Sansa returned South, she kept her word. Before, she had texted him occasionally, sporadically, even at the beginning. Now, Jon got a text from her a few times a day. Usually one in the morning, asking how he slept, one in the afternoon, asking how his day was going, and one at night, saying goodnight.

Before, Jon had been too nervous, too timid to reply too often. Now, Jon answered every one as soon as he could. And he gave real answers, instead of the half assed ones that usually ended the conversation like he had before. He wasn’t sure exactly what had changed, other than he learned what it was like to not talk to her, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like the emptiness it left him with.

* * *

Jon knew exactly what day it was before he opened his eyes. He could feel it instinctually.

A year ago, Jon had been with his brothers, had been on a routine scouting trip. He still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened—if it was an IED or a grenade or what that caused the explosion. He knew he woke up in a hospital room, alone, hooked up to a bunch of machines.

The rest of the memories came back later, at the VA, through EMDR and working with Dr. Tarth.

Really, Jon didn’t want to do anything today. He’d purposefully scheduled around today. He knew by how quiet the house was that everyone else had probably thought the same thing.

He rolled over to check his phone, looking at the time more than anything, when he saw a text from Sansa.

 

_Are you awake?_

 

It had come in fifteen minutes ago.

 

**Yeah.**

He expected another text to come in, but instead it was a phone call.

“Hello?” His voice was rough, still half asleep.

“Is it okay that I called?”

“Yeah.”

He had to try to corral his thoughts into a straight line. Half of his brain was still thinking about what day it was, and the other half was worrying about why she called. Was she okay? Did something happen with Harry?

“I just… I didn’t want to be alone today,” she whispered. “I called off work, but the idea of being alone in the apartment freaked me out.”

 _Oh_ , he thought. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I thought about driving up, but it’s such a long drive, just for one day. I would have had to leave at dawn, and it’d get back too late.”

He wanted to ask if she didn’t have any friends down there—anyone to keep her company—but he figured if she was calling him, she couldn’t have many other options.

“What if I met you somewhere?” he asked, words forming and coming out before he even thought it. “Is there a halfway point?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” he almost whispered. He didn’t want to be alone either, and there was something telling him it might be better to get out of the house. As much as the Starks had welcomed him, had given him a home, he didn’t need to remind them of what they lost. Catelyn had stopped getting teary every time she looked at him a few months ago, but he doubted that would still be true for today.

“Moat Cailin is about halfway between. It’s a really small town though. There’s not much to do.”

“That’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to be alone either.”

“Okay. I need like, fifteen minutes to shower? Is that okay?”

“Yeah—I need to shower yet too.”

“I’ll text you when I leave?”

“Okay.”

“Hey Jon?” Her voice was suddenly soft, intimate.

“Yeah?” He was embarrassed at how breathy his voice sounded.

“Thank you, for doing this.”

“Of course, Sansa.”

There was a moment of pause and he heard, or he thought he heard, Sansa inhale as if she was going to say something else, something more, but she didn’t, other than to say she would text him when she left.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Jon was in the kitchen making a sandwich to take with him when Arya appeared.

“I thought you were off today.”

“I am. Sansa called.”

“Is she okay?”

“She didn’t want to be alone today.”

A flicker of something distorted Arya’s features, but she schooled her face before Jon could identify what it was.

“You’re driving all the way down?”

“No, we’re going to meet in Moat Cailin. She said it’s about halfway. Can I borrow the trunk, you think?”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, distantly. “I doubt anyone’s going anywhere today.”

“Okay. Thanks. I don’t know if I’ll be back for dinner.”

 “I’ll let Dad know.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re okay, though?”

“Not being alone will be good for me,” he answered honestly. If he focused on spending time with Sansa the pain was just an ache. It wasn’t consuming or overwhelming the way he thought it would be. “If I stay, I’ll just be thinking about it all day.”

“Okay.”

* * *

Sansa had texted right before he left, saying that she was leaving and her GPS said she’d be there in about two hours.

He made it out of town before the quiet started getting to him. The radio was on and Ghost was beside him, but it wasn’t enough to combat the thoughts that were beginning to seep in.

He tried to focus on the road, on driving, but he kept thinking about how they’d been walking along a road similar to this, how if he hadn’t been running point, he wouldn’t have been the furthest past whatever it was.

When Ghost started whining, pushing against him, Jon pulled out his phone and called Sansa.

“Can you talk?” he asked as soon as she answered.

“Jon? You okay?”

“I need a distraction.”

“Um, okay. Uh… Oh! So I went to Moat Cailin with school once, and there’s this old building—fortress I guess—and they’d turned it into their library.”

Sansa described the fortress, the library, and the history she remembered from school. It was enough to calm him down, hearing her voice.

They talked the entire way to Moat Cailin, inane stuff, nothing even resembling importance. She spoke of other trips she had taken with school. She spoke of work, and some drama that had gone down between the design department and the marketing. Jon told her a bit about the dogs at the shelter and the other volunteers. The odd costumers at the hardware store, who bought things like a single hammer, with nothing else, as soon as they opened.

It was enough that he didn’t go reeling again.

* * *

Jon pulled in next to Sansa’s car in front of the café they agreed to meet at. Neither of them hung up until they turned their cars off and stepped out.

“Thanks so much for this,” she murmured, coming up to him. Jon welcomed the hug she offered. She held him tight and Jon found himself closing his eyes at the feeling. When she released him, Jon’s hands went automatically to his pockets. To the keychain she’d given him for Christmas.  “Shall we get some lunch? I might’ve forgotten to eat before I left.”

“Yeah.”

Sansa led him into the café where they ordered and found a quiet table in the corner. They talked over their sandwiches, kept the conversation going, but stayed on lighter topics.

For a solid half hour, Jon forgot entirely what day it was.

* * *

After lunch, they went to the fortress library Sansa had told him so much about.

They wandered the towers and shelves, talking quietly still, and because of how narrow some of the aisles were, occasionally bumping into each other. Each time they did, Jon tried to keep his distance, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. A few aisles later, their shoulders, their hands, something brushed. It sent his heart skittering in his chest every time, but between Ghost and their reason for being there in the first place settled his heart.

After exploring as much as they could, they settled in a couple of comfy chairs shoved in a corner between some shelves and a window. Sansa curled up immediately, and Jon thought he saw her remember what day it was—her face paled and the corners of her mouth seemed to droop.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like for you,” she whispered.

“It’s… not easy…” he said slowly. “We were on a road… That’s why I called you, before. I kept thinking about that road.”

“I didn’t even know yet. None of us did. Not until a few days later.”

“I didn’t either. I woke up in the hospital. They’d brought in someone from the psych ward to explain what had happened. I didn’t remember any of it.”

“Do you now?”

Jon glanced at her. Did she really want to hear what had happened? Or was she just asking if he remembered?

“Most of it. I still don’t… Don’t know what caused it. I’m sure if I called someone at the VA they could check my file and tell me, but… I don’t know if I want to know.”

“I get that.”

She reached out then, wrapping her fingers around his. He closed his eyes at the feeling of her hand. Every time he talked about that day with one of the Starks, he expected anger. Every time, someone reached out instead.

-

They spent the rest of the afternoon huddled in that corner, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Sansa only let go of his hand when she got up to use the bathroom.

Jon could feel the difference in spending time with Sansa than he did with Val. He was always tense with Val, on edge, not sure what to expect. Not because of anything she’d said or done, but because he didn’t know her well. He was comfortable with Sansa, relaxed.

When he talked with Sansa, he wasn’t second guessing what to say. He didn’t feel like he was hiding when they talked about light stuff. When he tried with Val, it had seemed artificial, like a mask.

With Sansa, he hadn’t felt like he had been wearing a mask since she came down to the trailer to listen to him play the guitar.

* * *

Jon had been in the car all of five minutes when his phone rang. It was Sansa.

“Did talking help on the way down?” she asked. He instantly knew what she was talking about.

“Yeah, it did.”

So, they talked the entire way back.

Even when he pulled back in, he switched off speaker phone and continued to talk to her, all the way until he got in bed.

He put the phone on the bed next to him, listening to Sansa’s voice get softer and more tired.

“I’ve got to get up early for work tomorrow,” she said at last. “And I should let you sleep, after commandeering your entire day.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“Good. And… Jon? I can’t thank you enough for it.”

“It was good for me too. I needed it.”

“Good night,” she whispered.

“Sweet dreams.”

* * *

Jon woke up sweating, tangled in his sheets, heart racing.

At first, he thought it was the same reason he typically woke up like that—a night terror. Except Ghost wasn’t beside him. He was still sleeping in the bed Sansa had given him for Christmas. If Ghost hadn’t woken him…

Jon pushed his hair back, away from his face, and his dream flashed before him.

Fingers running through his curls. Fingers that weren’t his.

He felt his stomach clench, feelings clawing, but not the feelings that typically accompanied a night terror. Not nausea or guilt or shame.

No, this was _desire_.

Suddenly, he was flooded with emotion. With relief and a sense of normalcy. Waking up sweaty after a hot dream? That was normal. That was something nearly everyone experienced at some point. That had nothing to do with war or loneliness.

Jon closed his eyes, and more of the dream came back.

Fingers in his hair. Feather soft kisses against his neck, his shoulders. Smooth skin beneath his hands. Red hair against porcelain skin.

That stopped him dead, eyes snapping open.

It had been Sansa he’d been dreaming about.

 _Sansa’s_ fingers in his hair, her skin under his hands, her hair across his pillow.

“Shit,” he muttered, not sure what to do with that realization. “Shit.”


	22. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SORRY for not posting for so long. Life and holidays are so time consuming. Thank you all for being so patient.

Sansa got the news about her transfer a few weeks before the grand opening. She had been approved and was set to begin shortly after the opening.

She hadn’t officially told anyone about actually applying for the transfer. Everyone knew about it, she supposed, given that Arya knew, but no one had mentioned it since she returned south. She hadn’t wanted to bring it up until she had an answer. If she didn’t get it, she wouldn’t have gotten their hopes up. But she did get it. So now she had to tell them that she would be home, indefinitely, in just a fortnight.

When she got the news, her initial response wasn’t to call her parents, or Arya, or run through the building and tell Mya.

She wanted to tell Jon.

Ever since they spent that day in Moat Cailin, things had felt different between them. Or maybe it was just her that felt different.

She found herself wanting to talk to him more. They had been texting every day, but after that they started calling each other. Or, really, usually she called him.

Every night after she finished working on a quilt, she would get ready for bed, crawl in, and call Jon.

She fell asleep talking to him a handful of times, his quiet, rough voice lulling her into dreams. It was soothing, his voice. Even when all he talked about was oiling hinges or dealing with customers at the hardware store. It sounded the way her childhood quilts felt. Comforting, warm, almost like being wrapped in someone’s arms.

There were even a couple of weekends where they video chatted, Sansa walking around her kitchen, baking, with the phone propped against the coffee maker. Jon would sometimes play guitar when they did that, strumming quietly. Sometimes they would watch a movie together, starting at the same time and propping her phone against the screen so she could watch both the movie and Jon’s reactions. That usually happened at night, when she’d get a text asking if she happened to be awake.

It was the best she could do with all the space between them, but it seemed to work. She’d seen him fall asleep watching a movie more than once.

Despite this, despite how often they spoke, Sansa didn’t mention her transfer or move. Her parents had wanted her to keep the opening a secret, and Sansa was worried she might accidentally let slip one of the reasons for her move if she mentioned it to him.

So, when she got her news, she couldn’t call him like the way she wanted to. Instead, she called Arya.

“I got it,” she said without preamble.

“Got it? Got what?”

“The transfer. I’m moving home.”

“When?”

“Two weeks. I start the week after the opening.”

“Have you told Jon?”

“No. I… I didn’t want him to think I was moving home for him.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind until the words came out. Because she wasn’t moving home for him…was she?

“What’s going on between the two of you?” Arya asked suddenly, voice sharp.

“I… Nothing.”

“You know he disappears to the attic every night when his phone rings?”

“He’s not in the attic when I call?”

“He’s been hanging out with me and Rickon. We’re introducing him to all the movies Dad made us watch as kids.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

Arya sighed.

“That’s not what I meant. He gets this dopey grin when he goes up. He thinks we don’t see it.”

“Really?” Sansa’s voice got high, giving the fluttering she felt away.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. What’s going on with you?”

 “Nothing. He’s dating that woman from his group.”

“I don’t think he is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, no, but… He hasn’t mentioned Val since New Year’s. And he hasn’t gone out to lunch for a while. Not since you two went to Moat Cailin.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Sansa had been excited about her news, about moving, about the opening. Arya’s information confused her, confused her excitement.

“What do you want it to mean?”

“Seven hells, Arya. I don’t know! I don’t know anything!”

“What do you want, Sansa? Do you want it to mean something? Do you want to move home for him?”

 _Yes,_ her gut said instinctually.

 _Yes,_ her heart shouted.

 _It may not mean anything to him,_ her brain whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“You talk on the phone every night. You drove two hours to see each other. He stopped going to lunch with Val. You can’t tell me there’s nothing there. On both sides.”

“I… Is he even ready to be in a relationship? Am I?”

“I think you two need to talk about this. Preferably with me not there.”

“How do I even bring that up? I don’t know how to talk about this.”

“Maybe talking is the problem.”

“Arya!”

“Don’t be gross. That’s not what I meant. I meant _show_ him. Give him some kind of sign ‘cause I can guarantee that he won’t do it on his own. He’ll wait for you to make the first move.”

Sansa could’ve guessed that. She was the one who kissed him that night in the trailer. She was the one who called every night, who usually texted first, except for the nights he texted asking if she was still awake. It was only his rough nights when he’d contact her first. Only the nights when he needed someone, needed her.

Jon was too quiet, too shy. She knew if she didn’t, it would never happen.

“You’re right,” she whispered.

They talked for a little while longer, logistics of her move and transfer. They didn’t bring up Jon or Val or anything again.

When Sansa hung up, she walked over to her sewing machine.

She needed something to show Jon that she was in this. That it meant something. She may not have been moving home for him, but he was certainly a factor.

She needed to show him how she felt.

What he meant to her.

Sansa picked up the fabric she’d been using for the most recent quilt, but it was generic. It was made up of patterns that were on sale and went well together. None of it meant anything.

She flipped through all the quilts she made, but none of them meant anything.

Then she reached the last quilt in her pile. The first one she made.

It was the one she started the night Harry had showed up in Winterfell. The one she made from scraps of all of their childhood quilts.

It was the worst quilt she made. The stitching was crooked—there were no straight lines in the entire quilt. The pattern was simple. The length was odd—it wasn’t quite the size of a queen, but it was bigger than a full.

It was the one she poured her heart into. The one she cried over the most.

She was pretty sure there was at least one drop of blood somewhere in the fabric from at least one of the times she pricked her finger.

She put her blood, sweat, and tears into that quilt, that quilt more so than any of the others.

It wasn’t quite a romantic gesture, but it was most definitely a heartfelt gesture. At the very least, it could start a conversation. It could give her the opportunity to explain what he meant to her, how she felt about him.

Sansa picked up the quilt, moving it out of the pile she was going to ship to Winterfell ahead of her move.

This quilt would be hand delivered.

* * *

Arya and Ned drove down with a U-Haul to help her bring everything North. Arya chattered on about how nice it would be to have everyone home, and how the preparations for the opening have been going. She said they had everything pretty much set. The sign was still being finished, but it was supposed to be installed in by the end of the week.

The dogs and trainers would also be officially moving in in a few days to help acclimate the dogs to the new surroundings.

“How’d you manage to keep it from Jon?” Sansa asked. She knew he had been working in the cabins—he’d told her as much. How had he not noticed the additions and supplies in the cabins?

“We asked Mikken to up his hours at the store so he hasn’t been around the cabins as much, and all the work he’s done has been outside. Landscaping, siding, all that.”

“Ah.” Sansa did remember him mentioning planting some saplings between some of the cabins.

She wanted to ask why Jon hadn’t come with to pick her up, but she pretty much knew why, between her dad’s comment about his hours at the shop and their using the time to fill her in on the opening.

She had, kind of, hoped that maybe Jon would have driven down to help her, but it was fine. She was pretty sure no one had told him yet that she was moving, which meant she could surprise him, both with the quilt and her presence.

* * *

Once she arrived in Winterfell, she thought she might see him. Might race up the driveway and into his arms like they were in some kind of romantic drama movie. She imagined him being on the porch, having heard the car coming up the drive, hoping it was her. Rickon was the only one waiting for them though.

“Where’s Jon?” she asked Arya, unable to help herself.

“Work. Mikken’s got him nine-to-five most week days.”

“Oh.”

Sansa moved her stuff back into her childhood bedroom, filling the spaces that had empty since she left for the South. She had left all of her furniture for the next person who rented, so there wasn’t a lot that needed to be rearranged. The biggest thing she had to make space for was her sewing machine and all her quilting supplies.

After she had everything put away, the only other thing that didn’t belong was the quilt for Jon. She had it folded on the end of her bed, tied with some spare ribbon.

She couldn’t decide how to give it to him. She thought about writing a note and slipping up to the attic, placing it on his bed for him to find when he gets home, but what would she write? _I made this for you_? That didn’t invite the conversation she wanted to have. She could wait until he got home and give it to him. Wait until it was their normal time and surprise him by knocking on the attic door instead of calling?

Would that be too much for him?

Maybe she shouldn’t combine the two.

Maybe she should show up for dinner and surprise him that way, and then take up the quilt after dinner, alone.

That seemed to make the most sense. That would be less overwhelming than her sitting on his bed when he gets home from work.

She moved the quilt over to her dresser, next to her pajamas, saving it for tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapters will hopefully not take almost two months.


	23. Jon

There was a U-Haul in the driveway, but Jon paid it almost no attention. There had been quite a few trucks and moving vans coming and going recently. Arya had said that they were refurnishing some of the cottages, which was why he had been mostly working either on the outsides or at Mikken’s shop.

That, and he was bone tired. He’d not slept well the last couple of nights, dreams plaguing him. They weren’t the types of dreams he was used to, though. Not ones of blood or pain or war. No, these dreams were far different.

Some of them were like the one he’d woken from right after he and Sansa had gone to Moat Cailin, dreams that forced him red and bashful whenever he recalled them. Dreams that left him flushed, sheets tangled around his hips, hair stuck to his face.

But not all of them. Some of them were innocent. Sometimes he dreamt that there was a body beside him in the bed, warmth radiating from it as he slid closer, burying his nose in the red hair that was draped across her back. Sometimes it was a slender hand reaching out to touch his face. Sometimes it was arms wrapped so tightly around him that it would have almost been hard to breathe had it not made breathing easier.

In every single dream, it was Sansa. It was always Sansa.

That’s what woke him up every time, was that realization.

He’d woken three times last night, and each time it was a hassle to get back to sleep. He’d probably only slept for at most five hours last night, not consecutively, and after working at the hardware store all day, all he wanted to do was eat dinner and fall right into bed.

It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other as he took the porch steps into the house.

Jon came in the front way, instead of going through the kitchen, as he meant to head straight to the shower before dinner, that way he could collapse right after.

He thought he heard someone say his name, but he figured it was just Arya mentioning that he was home.

Striding upstairs to the attic with Ghost at his heels, he moved on autopilot, his mind focused on how good it would feel to close his eyes after dinner.

The shower did a decent job of waking him up enough to be functional. The hot water had loosened his muscles that were sore from painting siding a few days ago.

He’d been so tired that he’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes down from the attic with him. Jon had already thrown his clothes from the day in the laundry, and the idea of putting on his sweaty work clothes fresh out of the shower made his skin crawl.

Steeling himself to bolt from the bathroom to the attic stairs in naught but a towel, Jon gripped the fabric at his hip, knuckles nearly white.

With a deep breath, Jon wrenched the bathroom door open and hurried down the hall, and ran smack into someone.

It was only because he had such a tight hold on his towel that it didn’t fall, though he thought he felt it slip on his other hip.

He was about to apologize to Arya or Rickon, whichever of them that he had just bumped into, but instead he saw red hair.

Jon was sure he was dreaming. He’d fallen asleep in the shower. That was the only explanation he could think of for why Sansa was standing in front of him, her face as red as his felt.

“I was hoping to run into you before dinner, but I didn’t think it’d be literally,” she laughed.

Jon felt his lips pull upward, but he was pretty sure he was still dreaming.

“I-I was wondering if we could talk? After dinner?”

“I…sure.”

That didn’t sound anything like one of his dreams. Which meant it wasn’t a dream. Which meant he was actually standing in front of Sansa, nearly naked, and with his chest, his scars, fully displayed.

While he was better, while he knew Dr. Tarth would be proud of his progress, he could still remember the way Sansa’s eyes widened, the way her mouth opened, the time she saw his scars. It still made him sick to think about, and there he was, with her staring at them again.

He could see how her eyes drifted down to his stomach, how they couldn’t stay focused on his face.

“I should…change for dinner,” he muttered, wishing he could pull the towel up to his chest.

“Right, of course. Sorry. I’ll let you go.” She ducked her head, and Jon watched her hair fall to hide her face.

She walked past him, and he found he couldn’t help but turn and watch her go downstairs. She didn’t look back at him.

Fighting the urge to ask her why she wanted to talk, ask her if she thought she could get over his scars, he instead turned to the attic stairs to get dressed.

* * *

In the kitchen, Jon learned that Sansa had moved back. Arya had said that she had gotten a transfer at her job, which meant she would be working only a short drive from Winterfell.

She was home, indefinitely, and she hadn’t mentioned it to him.

Sansa had never mentioned anything about a transfer or moving back.

But she wanted to talk to him after dinner.

He struggled to reconcile those two pieces of information, to put them together in a way that made sense.

Jon avoided her gaze as they sat across from each other. He could feel her eyes on him though, and he was sure it was because she’d seen his scars again.

Arya had seen them once, almost a month after he’d moved into the trailer. She’d never acted differently with him, but Sansa was different. Sansa’s opinion was different to him. And though she’d seen his scars once, this time felt different.

Before, they were barely friends. They were acquaintances at best. Now, he wasn’t sure what they were, but it was far past friends. Her reaction this time felt like it would matter far more to him than it had all those months ago.

Maybe it had something to do with all dreams he’d been having—the ones that left him tangled in sweaty sheets and flushed with a mix of desire and shame.

With the content of his dreams, had found himself filled with an energy, a longing he couldn’t combat. One he hadn’t felt since before he returned. The last time he had felt it was before his last leave—just over two years ago.

Initially, he’d had the thought of hooking up with someone—going to one of the clubs that Theon and a few others sometimes went to on weekends. Finding someone, being taken back to their place. Scratching the itch. It’s what he used to do on leave. He would be so desperate for contact, for touch. Once he even spent a whole weekend locked in a hotel room with a woman, one who begged him to stay, to never go back.

That weekend had been the closest thing to a relationship he’d had.

Even more briefly, he thought about that kiss from New Year’s Eve, the one that had confused him, made him uncomfortable, and about where it could lead. If he wanted it to. If he pursued it.

Every time he thought about it though, every time he let it play out in his head, his breath froze when the time came to remove his shirt.

The idea of being bare chested, of exposing what was there, instantly chilled any desire to have his thoughts actually play out.

He couldn’t bear the thought of having to endure pity, sympathy, or worse—questions.

Jon had supposed Val would be the safest of the options, having been a combat nurse and all, but even with her medical background, the idea still made Jon’s gut heave.

Instead, he decided to suffocate all thoughts of anything physical with anyone, which meant he also stopped getting lunch with Val. He didn’t want to mislead her into thinking the lunches were anything more than lunch.

All those thoughts, the decisions he made soon after the trip to Moat Cailin, flooded his head now with Sansa back, Sansa across from him, her eyes still on him, because of his scars.

* * *

After dinner, Jon disappeared to his room, despite his agreeing that he and Sansa could talk afterword. His head was too full, thoughts too tangled, to talk about whatever she wanted to talk about, because no doubt it was something serious. If it wasn’t serious, why ask him to talk in the first place? Why not just tell him when they bumped into each other in the hall? Or just come up after dinner and talk to him?

Why’d she have to ask at all? Didn’t she know he wouldn’t be able to think of much else until he found out what she needed to talk about?

Jon paced, still full to restlessness, of energy. He couldn’t tell if it was nerves propelling his steps, or something else. Something connected to his dreams.

Ghost followed him, but he wasn’t whining or pushing his head against Jon’s leg, so whatever he was feeling was clearly unrelated to anything Ghost had trained for.

After his shower, Jon had put on a flannel for dinner, but now the fabric was too warm. It itched, rubbing his skin wrong.

A t-shirt was what he needed—soft, cotton, without cuffs or collars. Nothing constraining.

His fingers trembled as he undid the buttons of his flannel, eager to shed the confines of the material.

Once the final button popped free of the hole, there was a knock.

Jon whirled to see that he hadn’t actually shut the door and Sansa stood there, her knuckles still against the doorframe.

Again, her eyes dropped down to his chest. Which, again, was exposed.

“Sorry, the door was… was open,” she whispered, her eyes flitting up to his.

Jon searched for revulsion, for disgust, the ones he feared even more than pity or sympathy.

The emotion he saw in her blue eyes wasn’t any of those, though. It was one he couldn’t immediately name.

“It’s…it’s fine.”

His fingers twitched to rebutton his shirt, but he found that he couldn’t.

He was testing himself, to see if he could do this. To see if he could tolerate having someone look at his chest.

“I wanted… I made this for you,” Sansa murmured, holding something out.

He looked at her face before taking it, still trying to figure out how she felt about his scars.

It took him a second to actually realize what he was holding: a quilt, tied with a ribbon.

Suddenly the scars were the last thing on his mind.

With a steadier hand than he thought possible, he undid the ribbon and unfurled the quilt.

He didn’t know much about quilting, or sewing of any kind, but he vaguely recognized some of the fabrics, the patterns, as ones he’d seen around the Stark house. Yes, the green acorns he thought were from the quilt Arya sometimes brought down when they stayed up late watching movies. The fall leaves were from the quilt that was in the trailer. And the sky blue with the little white flowers he knew from the quilt on Sansa’s bed.

“It’s… I made it from the materials Mom used to make all of ours. This one here—” Sansa pointed to one that had what looked like wolves stalking through trees. “—It’s from one of Robb’s quilts. I used as much from his as I could.”

Jon’s hands were no longer steady. His hand shook, the way it had when he first arrived, as he traced the quilt.

It wasn’t the grey squares of Robb’s quilts that drew his eye though. It was the pale blue of Sansa’s.

“It was the first quilt I made, so it’s not great. The stitching’s nearly all crooked in one way or another. I’m pretty sure there’s a few snags somewhere. And the—”

“It’s wonderful. Thank you.” He cleared his throat—his hand wasn’t the only thing that shook.

Trying to get a control of his features, Jon turned to lay the quilt on the bed, over the simple comforter he’d been using.

“I wanted you to have it…to have a part of us. But I… I also…” Her voice faltered and Jon nearly turned back around to face her, but suddenly she continued on before he had a chance. “I wanted to give you something to…show what you mean… W-what you mean to me.”

Jon turned at that, his heart hammering.

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly.

Sansa stood with her arms wrapped around her waist, looking smaller than she normally did. Looking like she did when they went to Moat Cailin. It made him want to reach out his arms, wrap them around her and hold her.

“I-I mean…Just that… I care about you, Jon. I wanted to show you,” she shrugged, her hair swinging forward. He thought he saw her eyes drop to his chest again, but it barely registered.

“Care about me,” he repeated. His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. “What does that mean? Because you didn’t tell me about moving back here, or your transfer. But you show up here, saying you want to talk to me, and then—then give me this quilt? This grand gesture?” He’s stepped nearer as he spoke, and he saw as Sansa straightened until she was her normal height.

“It was meant to be a surprise, my move. I half thought about hiding up here and waiting for you to get home,” she joked.

 _That_ image sent Jon’s head spinning in a direction he didn’t anticipate this conversation going. Sansa waiting for him in his room with a quilt. Sansa waiting to surprise him under the quilt.

Sansa waiting naked to surprise him under the quilt.

No, that wasn’t what he needed to be focusing on. That should be the least of his concerns.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he repeated.

“It was just that I wanted to surprise you is all. Stupid, I can see. I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“And the quilt?”

“Seven hells, the quilt was meant to make it easier. I didn’t mean for this all to be a big deal, Jon.”

“It is to me! Grand gestures, handmade quilts? I-I’m not…not _used_ to this kind of thing. I have no idea what any of it means. Or what it’s supposed to mean.” He took a deep breath, trying to slow his breathing.

He looked toward Ghost, the way he didn’t when he couldn’t quite tell what was an irrational response and what was just average emotion. Ghost watched him from his bed.

“I need to know what it means, Sansa.”

“I-I don’t know, Jon! I just know that I care about you! That I like being near you! I feel better with you. I miss you when we’re not together.”

Jon registered all of the things she said: _care, like, feel better, miss_. None of them answered his questions. He could say each of those things honestly about Arya or Rickon or Bran, but he didn’t feel for them the way he felt for Sansa.

He didn’t have dreams every night about any of the other Starks. Just Sansa.

“You care about me? Miss me? As what? A friend? A brother? Something else?”

Sansa stepped toward him, engulfing him in the scent of her shampoo, her lotion, her. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to inhale as deeply as he could, holding her scent in his lungs until they burned.

“Jon,” she breathed, stepping forward again and again until they were nearly toe to toe.

He could do nothing to steady his breathing now, and with his flannel unbuttoned, he was sure she could easily see just how fast his heart was beating.

He watched, wary, as Sansa’s hand reached toward him slowly, ever so slowly. Her palm settled above his heart; her fingers soft, gentle, warm. He inhaled sharply, eyes nearly fluttering shut.

“Is this okay?” she whispered, looking at him sharply, starting to draw her hand away. He nodded for his lack of voice.

She stepped forward again, until there was little more than a breath of space between them.

The hand that was not on his heart rose to his jaw. Sansa’s eyes never left his as she leaned in, slow enough that if he wanted to step away, he could.

It was the last thing he wanted.

When their lips touched it was fire in Jon’s blood. Fire coursing, raging through him. Fire that sent his heart stuttering in his chest.

His hands found her waist, clutching her tighter than he meant to.

If her kiss was fire, then her pulling away was ice.

“Gods, we’ve kissed twice and I’m halfway in love with you,” she breathed, her forehead pressed against his.

That stilled him.

“I’m sorry for the confusion, vagueness, mixed signals. I just… I didn’t know how you felt and I kinda wanted to…allow you to make the first move? I guess?”

“You didn’t know how I felt?” he asked, stepping back.

As Jon did, Sansa’s hand fell from his heart, dropping down and just skimming his scars.

He sucked in such a deep breath, steeling himself for her touch being yanked back, for her grimace, for something.

“S-sorry,” she stuttered. But her hand hesitated just a hair away.

“’S’okay.”

His stomach muscles quivered with how tense he was holding himself.

“M…May I?”

Jon frowned, biting his cheeks, but gave one jerking nod.

Her palm flattened against his scars and Jon thought he might black out from the sensation.

No one had touched his scars. No one since he left the hospital. He hadn’t even touched them. Not with his bare hands, only ever with a cloth or towel, always, always with some kind of barrier.

Her touch made him tremble.

“Do they hurt still?”

“No, not really. Not real pain.”

She ran her hand gently over them, not quite tracing them, but simply feeling them.

A part of him wanted to watch her hand, make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but instead he studied her face. The gentleness there.

She looked nothing like he thought she would. Her nose wasn’t flared or wrinkled; her mouth wasn’t pursed. Her eyebrows were drawn together, but not in a scowl. It looked more like concern.

All the same, when her hand slid back up his chest, he felt a tad more relaxed. With a deep breath, he settled his hands back on her waist, trying to mimic the lightness of her touch.

“I wasn’t sure how you felt. Arya said you were seeing someone. I didn’t want to make you choose, if you were.”

“It was never serious. We got lunch. We haven’t since you and I went to Moat Cailin.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

Jon wanted to ask her if she’d meant what she’d said before, about being halfway in love with him, if she’d meant it or merely used it as a figure of speech, but either way he suspected that her answer would break him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I've said this before, but I may extend this a chapter or two. It didn't feel right putting everything I'd intended in this chapter, which means I'll probably add a little more.


	24. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this will be about 28ish chapters. I have a rough outline and I think 28 will allow me to cover everything, but I wouldn't be surprised if it stretched to 30.
> 
> Also--this chapter overlaps with the last one. We'll see Sansa's PoV for part of the attic scene.

“Gods, we’ve kissed twice and I’m halfway in love with you,” Sansa breathed as she pulled back from the kiss.

She instantly felt how Jon stiffened beneath her touch. Her blood ran cold.

That was too much, much too much, too fast. She hadn’t been thinking. It was her mouth working faster than her brain. Her brain, which barely seemed to function with him this close, his shirt unbuttoned and his chest on full display. She had barely been able to keep her eyes off it before.

She’d seen him shirtless once before today—back when he’d broken his elbow. Then he’d been muscular but wiry, thin still. She hadn’t been expecting how much muscle mass he’d built up from working in the cabins and doing whatever he did for Mikken. She thought he must’ve been working out as well, because he was beautiful.

“I’m sorry for the confusion, vagueness, mixed signals. I just… I didn’t know how you felt and I kinda wanted to…allow you to make the first move? I guess?” she said, trying to move past what she said. She hoped if she said something else he wouldn’t think too much about what she’d just said.

“You didn’t know how I felt?” he asked, stepping away from her hands.

Sansa’s hand fell as she tried to maintain contact, but that just resulted in her fingertips sliding down his chest until they brushed the ridges of his scars.

She as much saw his sharp inhale as she heard it.

“S-sorry.” She quickly drew her fingers back, but only slightly.

“’S’okay.”

She had thought that the sharp breath had been him in pain, or him inhaling to tell her _no_ or _don’t_ , but he hadn’t. He’d just inhaled. And she thought that, maybe, she’d seen him lean toward her touch, just slightly. Small enough that she thought he might not have even noticed that he’d done it.

She acted on that idea.

“M…May I?” Her voice was less than even a whisper.

She watched his face, seeing how guarded his eyes were. How tightly he clenched his jaw. How the muscles and tendons in his neck seemed to strain with how tightly he was holding himself.

He nodded once; his eyes focused on something over her shoulder.

Sansa laid her palm flat against his stomach and the ridges there.

She’d felt them once before—that time they’d fallen asleep in her bed over the summer. He’d worn a t-shirt then and she had felt the ridges through the fabric. The only difference now was the warmth radiating from his bare skin.

“Do they still hurt?” she asked, voice soft. She could see how his muscles quivered under her touch.

“No, not really. Not real pain.”

That meant it was something else then, she thought. It wasn’t pain making his abdomen strain. She ran her hand across his stomach, feeling the grooves of his abs as much as she was his scars.

Blood rushed through her as her fingers trailed against his warm skin. The way it felt made her think of other things that would make his muscles strain, make them quiver.

She wondered what would happen if her hand went lower.

The thought made her blush terribly and she quickly moved her hand back to his chest, where it was marginally safer.

She felt Jon’s hands, butterfly light, rest on her hips. She wanted to grab them and wrap herself in them, pulling them tightly around her, but she left them where they were.

“I wasn’t sure how you felt. Arya said you were seeing someone. I didn’t want to make you choose, if you were,” she said, trying to get her thoughts back on a reasonable path.

“It was never serious. We got lunch. We haven’t since you and I went to Moat Cailin.”

It took everything in her power to not break into a grin at that. She thought she’d felt something different when they were at that library, but with what day it had been and without knowing about he and Val, she didn’t think too much of it. Didn’t allow herself to think too much of it.

“Oh. I didn’t know,” she murmured, and found herself stepping closer again. Her other hand came up to the other side of his chest. One hand now rested on his heart and the other beside it.

“So, you’re back for good, right? You’re not going back South?”

Again, Sansa saw as Jon’s eyes focused on a point that weren’t her own.

Instead of letting him have that small piece of privacy like she did before, she moved her hands to cradle his face.

His eyes slowly met hers.

The hesitancy that swirled there nearly broke her heart.

“I’m here for good. There’s nothing for me there.”

“And there’s something for you here?” Jon’s voice was rough, quiet. More gravel and grit than she’d heard it before.

“Gods, I hope so,” she breathed, her fingers sliding into his hair, the curls that were still damp from his shower.

“You’re sure you want this? I’m broken still. You know that, right? I’m not whole.”

“I know. I don’t care, ‘cause I’m not either. But I feel less broken with you.”

“I feel the same when I’m with you,” he whispered, his palms settling a little more firmly on her waist.

It wasn’t quite the declaration Sansa was hoping for. It was far more controlled than her _Gods, we’ve kissed twice and I’m halfway in love with you_ , but she couldn’t really blame him. Not after they kissed and Harry showed up over the summer, or her disappearing South and them almost losing contact. Not after whatever it was that went on in his past before the war.

She would take what she could get.

* * *

A few days after Sansa returned home, she was getting ready to go pick up the new signage, pamphlets, and other swag they’d had made for the opening. She and Ned were supposed to take the truck so that everything would fit, but to Sansa’s surprise, Arya asked if she could tag along instead.

“So, any specific reason you’re coming instead of Dad, or did you just want to get out of the house?” Sansa asked, propping her feet on the dash.

“Why do you think I have some kind of motive?”

“Do you?”

“Maybe.”

“Exactly.”

“How’d your talk with Jon go?”

That wasn’t quite where Sansa thought Arya was headed, but she had been the one that pushed Sansa to make a move. Plus, talking in the truck was easier since there was no risk of being overheard.

“Fine,” she shrugged. It was difficult to explain to someone else. They hadn’t expressed anything as explicitly as Arya had probably meant for them to, but they were going at their pace and Sansa fully understood that. She was patient.

“What, I don’t get more details?”

“Do you _want_ more details?”

“Hm. Maybe not. But it went well?”

“Yeah, it went well.”

“Good. I’m glad. He seems happier with you around.”

_I’m happier with him around_ , Sansa thought but didn’t say because that was mushy and Arya would probably hit her.

“Do you talk much about…about his life before the war?”

“Not in detail. Why?”

“We were just all talking last month… Jon’s been with us for a year, and before that I think he was in a VA hospital? But he never talks about a family, or a home, or anything. His birthday had to have passed, but he didn’t mention it. Did he say anything to you?”

Sansa felt her stomach drop.

She didn’t even think of that—of his birthday.

All of their birthdays passed quietly this past year with only small celebrations what with everything that was going on, but the fact that Jon’s had passed completely unacknowledged filled her eyes with tears.

“No. He didn’t say anything.”

“Do you know anything? About his time from before?”

“Not much. Just stuff he’s alluded to, the stuff from Robb’s letters,” Sansa said. But then she remembered another conversation she and Jon had, sitting on the porch over the summer. “He told me why he enlisted,” she added quietly.

Arya’s head jerked toward her.

“He thought he’d be a perfect solider because there’d be no one to mourn him if he… If he died.”

“Seven hells,” Arya breathed.

They were quiet for a few moments, the air in the cab heavy.

Sansa hadn’t thought of that conversation since then. She hadn’t really understood what that had meant. She hadn’t let it sink in that he had no one to mourn him. He had no one to come back to.

She could read between the lines. She understood that the squad, Robb and the rest, were probably the closest thing to family Jon had, and he lost _all of them._

“So, he has no one?” Arya said at last.

“Just us.”

“I… I guess I thought as much? He doesn’t really talk about anything, but I guess I assumed… or hoped that there was someone waiting for him. Do you know what happened to his family?”

“No. I don’t know if it was very happy though.”

“Can’t imagine it was.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, Sansa consumed by her thoughts of Jon and what his life must’ve been like before he came to Winterfell.

* * *

In the office of the company they ordered their sign and other stuff from, which was an independent variation of the one Sansa worked for, Sansa inspected everything to make sure that they’d gotten everything right and that there were no problems.

“So, this if your logo, huh?”

“Yep.”

“It looks exactly like Ghost.”

“It’s supposed to.”

“When’d you draw this again?”

“Dunno. A few months ago? Around Christmas, I think. Why?”

“Any particular reason why you made Ghost the logo?”

“I know what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything!”

“Sure. And I drew Ghost because Jon got him from there.”

“That’s it? That’s the only reason?”

“You know what? Shut up.”

* * *

Despite the lightness that filled them at the office, they lapsed into quiet again in the car, as if the conversation and revelation from earlier lingered there, waiting for them come back.

“Arya?”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t… Do you think Jon… Do you think he _meant_ to come back?”

“I don’t think I want to even consider the answer to that.”

“I saw his scars the other night, Arya, and… I still can’t understand how he survived. I don’t know how…” Sansa trailed off, her voice failing her. A tear ran down her cheek.

“Nope. Nuh-uh. This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to figure out when Jon’s birthday is and we’re going to do something for it. Even if it was months ago. I can’t believe none of us thought of it…”

“As long as it’s something small. I don’t think he’s ready for anything big.”

“Duh.”

* * *

When they got home, Sansa helped Arya and Ned hide all of the stuff from the truck bed in one of the cabins that Jon had pretty much finished with.

On her way back up to the house, she passed the cabin that Jon was fixing the gutters on.

He was up on a ladder, and with each motion the fabric of his t-shirt stretched against the muscles of his back. A light sheen of sweat shone on his bicep and forearm. She could see the tendons in his arm.

It made her think of the other night, when she noticed how muscular he’d gotten since summer. And how just damn good looking he was.

“Sansa?” Jon called, startling her. “What’re you doing?”

Another time she might have lied and said someone sent her to fetch him. Or that she had zoned out.

“Enjoying the view,” she called back instead, grinning. She could see the pink creep up his neck from there.

She didn’t know what she expected him to do, but climb down wasn’t how she thought he’d respond.

When he stood in front of her, she thought he might look flirtatious or something, but he appeared suddenly bashful.

“I-I was going to kiss you, but I’m all gross and sweaty,” he muttered, shuffling his feet.

“I don’t care,” she shrugged, leaning in to kiss him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a busy January, so I might not get anything else up until sometime in February, but I promise I'm still working on it and I'll try not to disappear like last time.


	25. Jon

Ever since the kiss in the attic, when Sansa gave him the quilt, Jon found that his dreams were filled with her. Her kiss, her touch, her scent. It was like all the dreams he’d been having since they went to Moat Cailin had been dialed up, intensified.

Maybe because he had new, fresh memories of what her lips felt like against his, or the echo of her fingers trailing against his stomach. Ones that weren’t faded or fuzzy from alcohol and anxiety.

He woke up hard nearly every morning—it was almost like he was a teenager again.

Except, unlike when he was a teen, he didn’t let himself get relief. Every time he tried all he could think about was Sansa. His dreams, his fantasies, they were all her, and half of him was terrified of that and half of him was riddled with guilt because of it.

And maybe it was all just pent up desire, broken free from whatever was keeping it dormant since the hospital.

In the nights that followed the one in the attic, Sansa would often come up after she’d made it seem like she’d gone to bed. He would usually be on the futon, where it was safe. Where they could talk and he wouldn’t be able to smell her shampoo or lotion or whatever it was. Where he couldn’t feel the warmth from her skin. Where he couldn’t accidentally reach out and touch her.

Except tonight. Tonight, when she came up, she came over and sat beside him on the futon.

She’d been off during dinner too, he thought, even though she’d seemed fine when she surprised him by the cabin after she got back from her errand with Arya. She’d kissed him, even with him gross and sweaty, and when she pulled away there was something different in her eyes. It wasn’t the sparkle and flirty glint that he thought he had noticed when she leaned in. It was something softer. Much softer. It had been there all through dinner too, and she had kept her foot pressed against his the entire time they were at the table.

And now, beside him on the futon, her knee was against his thigh.

“How was your errand?” he asked, because something in the air felt heavy and he needed to break it.

“Oh, um. It was fine.”

Her voice was soft, like her eyes. He didn’t know what changed between her leaning in to kiss him and her pulling back.

He didn’t know how to ask what happened, why she was quiet.

Sansa shifted next to him, moving so that her entire body was facing him, her head resting against the futon. Jon angled himself a little more toward her, just so that her knee kept contact with his leg.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked.

His gut dropped.

“Sure.”

“Did we miss your birthday?”

The question shocked the air out of him. _That_ was what she was concerned about? Missing his birthday? As if it didn’t go unnoticed nearly every year.

He remembered maybe— _maybe—_ a handful of birthdays from his early childhood that had a cake with candles, gifts. Those memories were so old though that he wasn’t entirely sure they were actually his. He could have fabricated them from stories he heard at school, or movies he’d seen. He couldn’t remember anything he ever got, like he could that Christmas he got a new pair of shoes, just a wrapped gift.

He did remember once, when he was sixteen, his neighbor gave him a jacket, but he was pretty sure that that didn’t actually count as a gift and just happened to be the same week as his birthday. Because that was the same winter his mother died.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, because it was. If it wasn’t a security question for nearly everything, he probably wouldn’t remember it himself.

“When was it?”

“End of November.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Jon shrugged.

It had been when they weren’t really talking much, and everyone was getting quiet with the holidays coming up, so even if birthdays had been something that were celebrated when he was a kid, he doubted he would’ve mentioned it.

“I can’t believe none of us thought of your birthday…” she whispered, trailing off. Her eyes drifted away from his face.

“It’s really not a big deal. Robb and the guys didn’t know it either,” he mentioned, only to make her stop looking at him like that. The expression she gave him next was worse.

“How long has it been since you celebrated your birthday?”

“Sansa, I promise, it’s really not anything to worry about.”

“Jon.” Her voice sounded urgent, stressed. She moved closer, more than just her knee against his leg now.

“Birthdays were never really something I celebrated, okay? They weren’t a big deal.”

“But… Never? I-I don’t…”

She didn’t understand, and of course she didn’t. How could she? She grew up in this house, with her parents, her siblings, never worrying about food or rent or bills. Her life was so vastly different from his, in every way, except that they both lost Robb.

“Birthdays are expensive,” he hedged, hoping it would be enough. Hoping she could leave it at that.

“Gifts, sure. But like…not even a cake? Or _something_ to mark the day? No tradition?”

When she put it that way, Sansa made it sound so reasonable, so obvious.

“I didn’t really… have a typical childhood?” he admitted, pulling his knees back toward him, breaking contact. “My mom got pregnant with me at sixteen,” Jon whispered. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest, trying to suppress the anxiety building in his chest.

“Oh…” The exhale was quiet, lungs deflating.

“It was some drunken hook up at a high school party. She was quiet in high school, shy. And the quarterback kept flirting with her…giving her drinks… She found out a few months later. Dropped out of high school. Moved into a rent-controlled apartment. Worked two jobs. I stayed with a neighbor a lot, until I was old enough to be home alone.”

Jon was not expecting all of that to come out. He didn’t talk about that stuff, and he’d had no intention of telling Sansa any of that. It just…came out.

“But… why didn’t you go to your mom when you got out of the hospital?”

“She died when I was sixteen.”

He remembered getting called down to the office. She’d been on her way home from third shift. It was winter and snowing. Their car was old. The tires should’ve been replaced a few winters ago, but tires were expensive.

It was the school social worker who told him, the cops standing behind her, looking solemn.

He lied when they asked if there was anyone at home who could look after him until he was eighteen. He said his mom’s boyfriend lived in the apartment next to theirs and he could spend more nights there.

Six months later, he lied about his age at the recruiter’s office.  

“Oh Jon,” Sansa murmured. She curled up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest. He unfurled enough that she could scoot closer, hold him tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

 _It’s okay,_ he tried to say, but the words choked and died in his throat. Instead something resembling a sob came out.

Sansa wrapped her arms fully around him, climbing almost entirely into his lap to hold him. Jon wrapped his arms as tightly as he could around her back, burying his face in her neck. She could probably feel the tears that he couldn’t hold back, and how hard he shook, but she clung to him, sliding until her knees held his hips, their torsos pressed together.

He felt her fingers slip into his hair; her lips graze his cheek.

He knew she meant it to be comforting. A show of affection. But his body reacted differently, and with how she was positioned he was sure he could feel it.

“I-I’m sorry—” he stuttered, pulling back, trying to shift her off.

To his surprise, Sansa looked at him with dark eyes. Dark with desire. Jon suddenly found it hard to swallow.

“I—” he started again, but her mouth covered his.

They’d kissed before, of course, but they were tentative, testing. This was different. This was heat and passion and tongues and taste and want and _need._

Jon _needed_ Sansa.

Her touch.

Her taste.

Her heat.

Sansa’s body rolled against his and a whine escaped his throat. He might’ve been embarrassed if Sansa hadn’t done it again. If she hadn’t made the same sound.

Her fingers worked the buttons of his flannel. His hands slid under her shirt, up her back.

Soon they were both shirtless, his fingers fumbling with her bra clasp like he was a teenager.

“Bed?” she gasped, pulling back to unhook her bra and toss it away.

Every part of Jon’s body screamed _yes_ , but his anxiety was louder, softening him. Drawing him back to reality.

“Or… Do you not have anything?” Sansa asked, misreading his hesitation.

“No, no, I do…” He’d bought a small box of condoms when he first started having the dreams, when he thought that he might act on them, but they were still unopened.

At his words, Sansa began kissing her way up his neck and Jon thought he might explode.

“That’s not… It’s…”

Something in his voice was enough to make Sansa pause, her hands stilling on his shoulders.

“It’s just… been a while. A long while. I, um. I thought that this part might not have come back.”

“Come back? From the war?”

_Shit._

“Kind of? I… That day… with the explosion?” Jon realized that his hand had moved from her waist to his chest, his scars. Sansa nodded. He had expected her to look…guarded, maybe? But not open. Not with wide eyes and kiss-swollen lips and patience. “I technically died too? The medics found me with a chest full of shrapnel and medevacked me to base. I died on the operating table for almost two minutes, but they brought me back… But… I hadn’t felt… _this_ since before, so I thought that…maybe… when I died… that I didn’t come back whole.”

Sansa cupped his face with her hands, fingers weaving into his hair.

“Oh, of course you’re whole, Jon,” she whispered, lips mere inches from his. Sansa kissed him once, soft, sweet, and chaste. “You are definitely whole,” she said again, voice lilting and flirty, and kissed him again.

This time Jon didn’t waste any time lifting her from the futon, her legs wrapping around his waist, and moving to the bed.

She shimmed out of her pants and Jon yanked his off as well before crawling back over her, their bodies flushed from thigh to chest.

His imagination, his dreams had not done this justice.

Her skin was like velvet but everywhere she touched on him felt as though it was aflame.

Her gasps, moans, and breathy sighs filled his ears.

Her nails scraped against his scalp, his back.

When he thought he wouldn’t be able to last much longer, he pulled back to reach into the drawer of the nightstand.

“Are you sure?” he asked, just once, before he opened the box.

“Very sure,” she whispered, her hands still roaming over everything they could reach.

Jon tore into the packaging, tossing it to the side along with his boxers and her underwear. He rolled the condom on, and lowered himself onto his elbows.

He watched her face, waiting for that flicker of pain or hesitation. Or regret. But as he slowly sank into her, her eyes fluttered closed and she pulled him closer, kissing his jaw, his neck, his chest.

Jon moved slowly, terrified of hurting her, but she wrapped her legs around his hips and moved her hips with him.

It was sweet and slow and intimidate. It was soft hands and caresses. It was lips pressed to necks and cheeks and eyelids. It was eye contact and hitching breath.

And it was all too much. Jon knew he wouldn’t last long, no matter what they did.

He reached between them, his fingers finding where her bundle of nerves was and circling it.

She had kissed him in that moment and the moan that vibrated into his mouth was almost enough to make him spill, but he fought it just long enough that he felt her walls tighten and his name escape her lips, panting and heady.  

That was all it took for his body to shake, his release consuming him, racking him.

He slowly pulled out and collapsed beside her, sweaty and spent. He could barely keep his eyes open.

It was all he could do to pull the condom off and slide his boxers back on.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered, kissing him lightly.

Jon watched with hazy vision as she pulled on her pajama pants and his flannel. The sight of her in it, even as she was walking away, was enough to make his heart skip a beat.

Jon was nearly half asleep when he felt Sansa slide in the bed beside him. She wrapped a leg around his and an arm around his chest.

“Sweet dreams, Jon.”

“You too,” he mumbled, already drifting off.

* * *

When Jon woke up halfway through the night, it wasn’t because he’d had a night terror or was suddenly hard. It was because he wasn’t used to sleeping with anyone other than Ghost, and Sansa’s soft snoring had jolted him awake.

He studied the moonlight on her skin, trying to calm his racing heart. She moved in her sleep then, pushing closer, her head on his chest.

He found the weight reassuring and quickly fell back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have time to write between Sunday and next weekend, otherwise I'll have something up around Valentine's day.


	26. Sansa

Sansa woke up wrapped completely around Jon’s body. One leg was thrown across his stomach, one was hooked under his knee, one arm wound around his and her other hand on his heart. She didn’t know how they had possibly ended up in this position, but she didn’t want to leave. Instead, she curled tighter into his side, snuggling closer.

She could tell he was still asleep with how slowly his chest rose. He snored softly, proof of how deep asleep he was.

She couldn’t help but wonder when the last time he slept this deeply was. He’d been almost out last night when she got back from using the bathroom—clearly, he was either running on not enough sleep or the sex had worn him out that much.

That thought alone made her blush.

Unbidden, the image of him coming completely undone above her rose to her mind, making her blush more.

She knew it had been a while for Jon—he’d said as much—but it had been a while for her too. Her and Harry hadn’t been having sex for months before they got the news about Robb, and even before that the sex was okay. Mediocre.

It hadn’t been what it was like last night.

The memories alone were enough to send heat pooling between her legs, but the last thing she wanted to do was wake him when he so clearly needed the sleep. So, she pushed the feeling down, pulled his other arm around herself, and went back to sleep.

* * *

Sansa woke up some time later to the feeling of fingers tracing the line of her spine. She twisted and found Jon propped on his elbow, his eyes focused on his fingers’ movements.

“Morning,” she murmured, accidentally startling him.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Not at all.”

Sansa rolled over to face him and she noticed how Jon shifted the sheet, covering the worst of his scars.

She put her hand out, sliding it under the sheet, stopping him from pulling it up any further.

“Don’t,” Sansa whispered. “They don’t bother me.”

“They don’t?” His eyes didn’t meet hers.

She reached up, cradling his face, forcing him to look at her.

“Of course not,” she whispered, kissing him lightly.

He kissed her back, lightly, gently. There was none of the urgency and need that had filled their kisses last night. This one felt more like a conversation—a response to her pushing the sheet back down.

When he pulled back, Jon groaned, pressing his head back into the pillow.

“We’ve got to get up.”

“Do we though?” she asked, resting her head on his chest.

“I’ve got work to do in the last few cottages. Opening weekend is only a week away.”

Sansa nearly opened her mouth to ask who the hell told him about opening weekend until she realized he meant for the season, when they typically would start having guests arrive. He didn’t know what opening weekend actually meant this year.

Sansa sighed, pushing herself up and sliding out of bed. She heard Jon get up behind her, heard him pulling his jeans on.

For some reason, she was suddenly filled with an anxiety that this was a dream. That last night hadn’t actually happened. That they’d somehow slide back into their routines and still exist in that grey area they’ve been in—more than friends but not together.

She knew it was a larger conversation, one they needed to have, but not right now, when they were getting dressed and had things that needed to get done.

She just needed proof—needed something to hold on to until they had time to have the conversation.

“Can… Can I borrow this?” she asked, holding up the flannel he’d worn to dinner last night.

“It’s dirty,” he answered, barely glancing at it.

She held the shirt closer to her, inhaling lightly. It didn’t smell bad—just like him. She slid it on over her tank top she’d slept in. She didn’t care.

When Jon turned around, she saw the exact moment he registered that she was wearing his flannel. His entire face shifted, softening, and she thought she saw his eyes darken just a little.

“Is this okay?” She pulled the flannel closer, wrapping herself in it.

“I… Are you sure?”

“I am.”

Jon strode forward, kissing her hard and fast.

“I’ll see you this afternoon?”

“Of course.”

She kissed him again, once more, before he headed downstairs.

Sansa picked up the last of her clothes from last night before following him down. She was just about to open her door when she heard a screech and she was hauled into a different room.

“You’re wearing his shirt!” Arya yelled once her door was firmly closed.

“Oh. Yeah.”

She guessed that was what Jon meant when he asked if she was sure—wearing his shirt would announce that something was happening to her family. Her answer still stood.

“What happened?”

“We slept together,” she whispered.

“Holy shit. Did not think you’d move that fast.”

“Hey!”

“No, sorry, but still. I just mean… Well, I guess you have been dancing around this for almost a year.”

“So, you’re official?”

“I… We didn’t do a whole lot of talking yet. But we’re getting there.”

“Well. That’s something.”

Sansa opened her mouth to say more—she wasn’t really sure what—maybe ask Arya what she thought their parents would say, but Arya held up a hand.

“I don’t want to know details.”

Sansa snorted.

* * *

Sansa was standing at the kitchen sink, helping Catelyn wash all the dishes that they kept in the cabins. She glanced at the window and saw Jon walking across the yard. It made her catch her breath.

“Sansa? Are you…? Oh.”

Sansa looked over enough just in time to see Catelyn notice Jon in the yard.

She had changed out of his flannel before she came down for the day, but mostly because it was warm in the house with it being early May. Also, because she realized what wearing his flannel around the house would mean and even if she was okay with announcing it, she wanted to hear him say he was okay with it too. His kiss this morning might have been an answer, but she still wanted to have that larger conversation first.

“Do… Do you like Jon?”

“I—Of course I like Jon. Don’t we all?”

Sansa had known Arya and Ned were the ones who were more vocal about taking Jon in initially. She thought Catelyn had still been too wrapped up in her grief to have much of an opinion on him. She wondered now if maybe she was wrong. If maybe Catelyn had never wanted Jon here in the first place.

“No, no… I meant… Are you interested in Jon?”

“Oh. Um…” Sansa felt her face flush. Catelyn took that as her answer.

“I think that might be a good thing, if you are.”

“I—Really? You don’t think… it’s too soon?”

She wasn’t sure if she meant too soon after Robb or too soon after everything with Harry.

“I think Robb would be happy for you. Your dad was rereading some of Robb’s letters a few weeks ago and he realized how often he mentioned Jon, in trying to get him back here during a leave. I think he would’ve liked it if you two got together,” Catelyn said softly.

Sansa had not expected that answer, especially from Catelyn, but she did remember Jon being mentioned in some of the letters. She knew Robb cared for Jon—she remembered one letter had asked her to send extra stuff since Jon didn’t get his own care packages. Maybe she was right.

But Catelyn was talking about liking Jon—she probably thought it was something simple. Attraction, a little more than friendship.

Sansa was pretty sure whatever this was, it was more than that.

If this was a crush, if this was just a little beyond friendship, then seeing him cross the yard wouldn’t make her catch her breath.

If this was just _liking_ him, last night wouldn’t have felt like it did. Wearing his flannel wouldn’t have felt like it did.

This was more than a crush, more than liking him.

Sansa was pretty sure she was in love with him.

* * *

Jon went up to the attic soon after the dishes from dinner were all cleared up. Sansa typically would wait for a little bit, watch a little TV with everyone else, before making some excuse to go to bed. Instead, Sansa went up only a few minutes after Jon did. She didn’t care if Rickon or Ned put two and two together. Arya and Catelyn would probably tell them anyway.

On her way to the attic, Sansa stopped in her room and changed into her pajamas, throwing his flannel on over the tank top and shorts.

Jon’s face did the same thing it had this morning when he saw her in it.

She decided she was going to start wearing his clothes everywhere.

“Hey,” she murmured, sitting beside him on the bed.

“That looks good on you. I meant to tell you this morning.”

“Thanks.”

Sansa opened her mouth, trying to figure out what she wanted to say first: _I think I’m in love with you_ or _How do you feel about telling everyone about us?_ Or, even scarier, _What does_ us _mean for you?_

“You didn’t wear it to dinner?” Jon asked, deciding for her.

The hesitancy in his voice made her heart stop.

“I wanted to talk to you first. When you asked this morning… I hadn’t thought about what wearing it around would mean. I just wanted to make sure that… you’re okay with…with it.”

“With you wearing my shirt?”

“With telling everyone…about us? If we are an us.”

“Do you want to be?”

Jon wasn’t looking at her again. He was looking over her shoulder. It was like he was scared that even after last night she would say no.

 _I love you_ bubbled to her lips but that was too much too soon. And it wasn’t an answer.

“I do. I want to be with you, Jon.”

“Thank the gods,” he whispered, running his hands over his face, through his hair.

“Are you okay with them all knowing?”

“I am if you are.”

Sansa kissed him then, and almost suggested going back downstairs to tell everyone, but he pulled her closer and the fact that other people even existed suddenly slipped from her mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter and the epilogue left.
> 
> The next chapter will most likely be fairly long so bare with me if it takes me a little longer to get it up. Hopefully around the end of the month.


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